HIS 
LAST 
BOW 


A  CONAN  DOYLE 


S.  EDWIN  CORLE,  JR. 

HIS   BOOK    


HIS       LAST       BOW: 

A  REMINISCENCE  OF  SHERLOCK  HOLMES 


BY  ARTHUR  CONAN  DOYLE 


mS   LAST   BOW 

A  HISTORY  OF  THE  GREAT  WAR 

THE  VALLEY  OF  FEAR 

THE  POISON  BELT 

THE  LOST  WORLD 

THE  CASE  OF  OSCAR  SLATER 

THE  GERMAN  WAR 

NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


HIS  LAST  BOW 

A      REMINISCENCE 
OF   SHERLOCK   HOLMES 


BY 

ARTHUR  CONAN  DOYLE 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  ADVENTURES  or  SHERLOCK  HOLMES," 
"THE  BOER  WAR,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  IQiy, 
BY  GEOBGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


PREFACE 

THE  friends  of  Mr.  Sherlock  Holmes  will  be 
glad  to  learn  that  he  is  still  alive  and  well, 
though  somewhat  crippled  by  occasional  attacks 
of  rheumatism.  He  has,  for  many  years,  lived  in 
a  small  farm  upon  the  Downs  five  miles  from 
Eastbourne,  where  his  time  is  divided  between 
philosophy  and  agriculture.  During  this  period 
of  rest  he  has  refused  the  most  princely  offers  to 
take  up  various  cases,  having  determined  that  his 
retirement  was  a  permanent  one.  The  approach 
of  the  German  war  caused  him,  however,  to  lay 
his  remarkable  combination  of  intellectual  and 
practical  activity  at  the  disposal  of  the  Govern- 
ment, with  historical  results  which  are  recounted 
in  His  Last  Bow.  Several  previous  experiences 
which  have  lain  long  in  my  portfolio  have  been 
added  to  His  Last  Bow  so  as  to  complete  the 
volume. 

JOHN  H.  WATSON,  M.D. 


[v] 

2031475 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGH 

I  THE  ADVENTURE  OF  WISTERIA  LODGE  .  .  11 
II  THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  CARDBOARD  Box  .  62 

III  THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  RED  CIRCLE  .  .  98 

IV  THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON 

PLANS 130 

V   THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  DYING  DETECTIVE   179 

VT    THE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  LADY  FRANCES  CAR- 
FAX   205 

VII   THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  DEVIL'S  FOOT  .     .  239 
VIII   His  LAST  Bow  .  282 


[vii] 


HIS    LAST   BOW 


THE     ADVENTURE     OF    WISTERIA 
LODGE 


I. THE    SINGULAR    EXPERIENCE    OF    MR.     JOHN 

SCOTT  ECCLES 

I  FIND  it  recorded  in  my  notebook  that  it 
was  a  bleak  and  windy  day  towards  the  end 
of  March  in  the  year  1892.  Holmes  had  re- 
ceived a  telegram  whilst  we  sat  at  our  lunch,  and 
he  had  scribbled  a  reply.  He  made  no  remark, 
but  the  matter  remained  in  his  thoughts,  for  he 
stood  in  front  of  the  fire  afterwards  with  a 
thoughtful  face,  smoking  his  pipe,  and  casting  an 
occasional  glance  at  the  message.  Suddenly 
he  turned  upon  me  with  a  mischievous  twinkle 
in  his  eyes. 

"I  suppose,  Watson,  we  must  look  upon  you 
as  a  man  of  letters,"  said  he.  "How  do  you 
define  the  word  'grotesque'?" 

"Strange — remarkable,"  I  suggested. 

He  shook  his  head  at  my  definition. 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"There  is  surely  something  more  than  that," 
said  he;  "some  underlying  suggestion  of  the 
tragic  and  the  terrible.  If  you  cast  your  mind 
back  to  some  of  those  narratives  with  which  you 
have  afflicted  a  long-suffering  public,  you  will 
recognise  how  often  the  grotesque  has  deepened 
into  the  criminal.  Think  of  that  little  affair  of 
the  red-headed  men.  That  was  grotesque  enough 
in  the  outset,  and  yet  it  ended  in  a  desperate  at- 
tempt at  robbeiy.  Ory  again,  there  was  that 
most  grotesque  affair  of  the  five  orange  pips, 
which  led  straight  to  a  murderous  conspiracy. 
The  word  puts  me  on  the  alert." 

"Have  you  it  there?"  I  asked. 

He  read  the  telegram  aloud. 

"Have  just  had  most  incredible  and  grotesque 
experience.  May  I  consult  you? — Scott  Eccles, 
Post  Office,  Charing  Cross." 

"Man  or  woman?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  man,  of  course.  No  woman  would  ever 
send  a  reply-paid  telegram.  She  would  have 
come." 

"Will  you  see  him?" 

"My  dear  Watson,  you  know  how  bored  I 
have  been  since  we  locked  up  Colonel  Carruthers. 
My  mind  is  like  a  racing  engine,  tearing  itself 
to  pieces  because  it  is  not  connected  up  with 
the  work  for  which  it  was  built.  Life  is  common- 
place, the  papers  are  sterile;  audacity  and  ro- 
mance seem  to  have  passed  for  ever  from  the 
[12] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA   LODGE 

criminal  world.  Can  you  ask  me,  then,  whether 
I  am  ready  to  look  into  any  new  problem,  how- 
ever trivial  it  may  prove  ?  But  here,  unless  I  am 
mistaken,  is  our  client." 

A  measured  step  was  heard  upon  the  stairs, 
and  a  moment  later  a  stout,  tall,  grey-whiskered 
and  solemnly  respectable  person  was  ushered 
into  the  room.  His  life  history  was  written  in 
his  heavy  features  and  pompous  manner.  From 
his  spats  to  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles  he  was 
a  Conservative,  a  Churchman,  a  good  citizen, 
orthodox  and  conventional  to  the  last  degree. 
But  some  amazing  experience  had  disturbed  his 
native  composure  and  left  its  traces  in  his  bris- 
tling hair,  his  flushed,  angry  cheeks,  and  his  flur- 
ried, excited  manner.  He  plunged  instantly 
into  his  business. 

"I  have  had  a  most  singular  and  unpleasant 
experience,  Mr.  Holmes,"  said  he.  "Never  in 
my  life  have  I  been  placed  in  such  a  situation. 
It  is  most  improper — most  outrageous.  I  must 
insist  upon  some  explanation."  He  swelled 
and  puffed  in  his  anger. 

"Pray  sit  down,  Mr.  Scott  Eccles,"  said 
Holmes,  in  a  soothing  voice.  "May  I  ask,  in 
the  first  place,  why  you  came  to  me  at  all?" 

"Well,  sir,  it  did  not  appear  to  be  a  matter 
which  concerned  the  police,  and  yet,  when  you 
have  heard  the  facts,  you  must  admit  that  I  could 
not  leave  it  where  it  was.  Private  detectives 

[13] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


are  a  class  with  whom  I  have  absolutely  no  sym- 
pathy, but  none  the  less,  having  heard  your 
name " 

"Quite  so.  But,  in  the  second  place,  why  did 
you  not  come  at  once?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

Holmes  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"It  is  a  quarter  past  two,"  he  said.  "Your 
telegram  was  dispatched  about  one.  But  no  one 
can  glance  at  your  toilet  and  attire  without  seeing 
that  your  disturbance  dates  from  the  moment  of 
your  waking." 

Our  client  smoothed  down  his  unbrushed  hair 
and  felt  his  unshaven  chin. 

"You  are  right,  Mr.  Holmes.  I  never  gave 
a  thought  to  my  toilet.  I  was  only  too  glad  to 
get  out  of  such  a  house.  But  I  have  been  run- 
ning round  making  inquiries  before  I  came  to 
you.  I  went  to  the  house  agents,  you  know,  and 
they  said  that  Mr.  Garcia's  rent  was  paid  up  all 
right  and  that  everything  was  in  order  at  Wis- 
teria Lodge." 

"Come,  come,  sir,"  said  Holmes,  laughing. 
"You  are  like  my  friend  Dr.  Watson,  who  has 
a  bad  habit  of  telling  his  stories  wrong  end  fore- 
most. Please  arrange  your  thoughts  and  let 
me  know,  in  their  due  sequence,  exactly  what 
those  events  are  which  have  sent  you  out  un- 
brushed and  unkempt,  with  dress  boots  and  waist- 
[14] 


THE  ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA  LODGE 

coat  buttoned  awry,  in  search  of  advice  and  as- 
sistance." 

Our  client  looked  down  with  a  rueful  face  at 
his  own  unconventional  appearance. 

"I'm  sure  it  must  look  very  bad,  Mr.  Holmes, 
and  I  am  not  aware  that  in  my  whole  life  such  a 
thing  has  ever  happened  before.  But  I  will  tell 
you  the  whole  queer  business,  and  when  I  have 
done  so  you  will  admit,  I  am  sure,  that  there  has 
been  enough  to  excuse  me."  i 

But  his  narrative  was  nipped  in  the  bud. 
There  was  a  bustle  outside,  and  Mrs.  Hudson 
opened  the  door  to  usher  in  two  robust  and 
official-looking  individuals,  one  of  whom  was 
well  known  to  us  as  Inspector  Gregson  of 
Scotland  Yard,  an  energetic,  gallant,  and,  with- 
in his  limitations,  a  capable  officer.  He  shook 
hands  with  Holmes,  and  introduced  his  comrade 
as  Inspector  Baynes  of  the  Surrey  Constabulary. 

"We  are  hunting  together,  Mr.  Holmes,  and 
our  trail  lay  in  this  direction."  He  turned  his 
bulldog  eyes  upon  our  visitor.  "Are  you 
Mr.  John  Scott  Eccles,  of  Popham  House, 
Lee?" 

"I  am." 

"We  have  been  following  you  about  all  the 
morning." 

"You  traced  him  through  the  telegram,  no 
doubt,"  said  Holmes. 

"Exactly,  Mr.  Holmes.  We  picked  up  the 

[15] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


scent  at  Charing  Cross  Post  Office  and  came 
on  here." 

"But  why  do  you  follow  me?  What  do  you 
want?" 

"We  wish  a  statement,  Mr.  Scott  Eccles,  as 
to  the  events  which  led  up  to  the  death  last 
night  of  Mr.  Aloysius  Garcia,  of  Wisteria  Lodge, 
near  Esher." 

Our  client  had  sat  up  with  staring  eyes  and 
every  tinge  of  colour  struck  from  his  astonished 
face. 

"Dead?    Did  you  say  he  was  dead?" 

"Yes,  sir,  he  is  dead." 

"But  how?    An  accident?" 

"Murder,  if  ever  there  was  one  upon  earth." 

"Good  God!  This  is  awful!  You  don't  mean 
— you  don't  mean  that  I  am  suspected?" 

"A  letter  of  yours  was  found  in  the  dead  man's 
pocket,  and  we  know  by  it  that  you  had  planned 
to  pass  last  night  at  his  house." 

"So  I  did." 

"Oh,  you  did,  did  you?" 

Out  came  the  official  notebook. 

"Wait  a  bit,  Gregson,"  said  Sherlock  Holmes. 
"All  you  desire  is  a  plain  statement,  is  it  not?" 

"And  it  is  my  duty  to  warn  Mr.  Scott  Eccles 
that  it  may  be  used  against  him." 

"Mr.  Eccles  was  going  to  tell  us  about  it 
when  you  entered  the  room.  I  think,  Watson, 
a  brandy  and  soda  would  do  him  no  harm. 
[16] 


THE  ADVENTURE   OF  WISTERIA  LODGE 

Now,  sir,  I  suggest  that  you  take  no  notice  of 
this  addition  to  your  audience,  and  that  you 
proceed  with  your  narrative  exactly  as  you 
would  have  done  had  you  never  been  inter- 
rupted." 

Our  visitor  had  gulped  off  the  brandy  and 
the  colour  had  returned  to  his  face.  With  a 
dubious  glance  at  the  inspector's  notebook,  he 
plunged  at  once  into  his  extraordinary  state- 
ment. 

"I  am  a  bachelor,"  said  he,  "and,  being  of  a 
sociable  turn,  I  cultivate  a  large  number  of 
friends.  Among  these  are  the  family  of  a  re- 
tired brewer  called  Melville,  living  at  Albemarle 
Mansion,  Kensington.  It  was  at  his  table  that 
I  met  some  weeks  ago  a  young  fellow  named 
Garcia.  He  was,  I  understood,  of  Spanish  de- 
scent and  connected  in  some  way  with  the  Em- 
bassy. He  spoke  perfect  English,  was  pleasing 
in  his  manners,  and  as  good-looking  a  man  as 
ever  I  saw  in  my  life. 

"In  some  way  we  struck  up  quite  a  friend- 
ship, this  young  fellow  and  I.  He  seemed  to 
take  a  fancy  to  me  from  the  first,  and  within 
two  days  of  our  meeting  he  came  to  see  me  at 
Lee.  One  thing  led  to  another,  and  it  ended  in 
his  inviting  me  out  to  spend  a  few  days  at  his 
house,  Wisteria  Lodge,  between  Esher  and  Ox- 
shott.  Yesterday  evening  I  went  to  Esher  to 
fulfil  this  engagement. 

[17] 


HIS  LAST   BOW 


"He  had  described  his  household  to  me  before 
I  went  there.  He  lived  with  a  faithful  servant, 
a  countryman  of  his  own,  who  looked  after  all 
his  needs.  This  fellow  could  speak  English  and 
did  his  housekeeping  for  him.  Then  there  was 
a  wonderful  cook,  he  said,  a  half-breed  whom 
he  had  picked  up  in  his  travels,  who  could  serve 
an  excellent  dinner.  I  remember  that  he  re- 
marked what  a  queer  household  it  was  to  find 
in  the  heart  of  Surrey,  and  that  I  agreed  with 
him,  though  it  has  proved  a  good  deal  queerer 
than  I  thought. 

"I  drove  to  the  place — about  two  miles  on 
the  south  side  of  Esher.  The  house  was  a  fair- 
sized  one,  standing  back  from  the  road,  with 
a  curving  drive  which  was  banked  with  high 
evergreen  shrubs.  It  was  an  old,  tumble-down 
building  in  a  crazy  state  of  disrepair.  When 
the  trap  pulled  up  on  the  grass-grown  drive  in 
front  of  the  blotched  and  weather-stained  door, 
I  had  doubts  as  to  my  wisdom  in  visiting  a 
man  whom  I  knew  so  slightly.  He  opened  the 
door  himself,  however,  and  greeted  me  with  a 
great  show  of  cordiality.  I  was  handed  over 
to  the  manservant,  a  melancholy,  swarthy  in- 
dividual, who  led  the  way,  my  bag  in  his  hand, 
to  my  bedroom.  The  whole  place  was  depress- 
ing. Our  dinner  was  tete-a-tete,  and  though 
my  host  did  his  best  to  be  entertaining,  his 
thoughts  seemed  to  continually  wander,  and  he 
[18] 


THE  ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA   LODGE 

talked  so  vaguely  and  wildly  that  I  could  hardly 
understand  him.  He  continually  drummed  his 
fingers  on  the  table,  gnawed  his  nails,  and  gave 
other  signs  of  nervous  impatience.  The  dinner 
itself  was  neither  well  served  nor  well  cooked, 
and  the  gloomy  presence  of  the  taciturn  servant 
did  not  help  to  enliven  us.  I  can  assure  you 
that  many  times  in  the  course  of  the  evening 
I  wished  that  I  could  invent  some  excuse  which 
would  take  me  back  to  Lee. 

"One  thing  comes  back  to  my  memory  which 
may  have  a  bearing  upon  the  business  that  you 
two  gentlemen  are  investigating.  I  thought 
nothing  of  it  at  the  time.  Near  the  end  of  din- 
ner a  note  was  handed  in  by  the  servant.  I 
noticed  that  after  my  host  had  read  it  he  seemed 
even  more  distrait  and  strange  than  before.  He 
gave  up  all  pretence  at  conversation  and  sat, 
smoking  endless  cigarettes,  lost  in  his  own 
thoughts,  but  he  made  no  remark  as  to  the  con- 
tents. About  eleven  I  was  glad  to  go  to  bed. 
Some  time  later  Garcia  looked  in  at  my  door — 
the  room  was  dark  at  the  time — and  asked  me 
if  I  had  rung.  I  said  that  I  had  not.  He  apolo- 
gised for  having  disturbed  me  so  late,  saying 
that  it  was  nearly  one  o'clock.  I  dropped  off 
after  this  and  slept  soundly  all  night. 

"And  now  I  come  to  the  amazing  part  of  my 
tale.  When  I  woke  it  was  broad  daylight.  I 
glanced  at  my  watch,  and  the  time  was  nearly 

[19] 


HIS  LAST  BOW 


nine.  I  had  particularly  asked  to  be  called  at 
eight,  so  I  was  very  much  astonished  at  this 
forgetfulness.  I  sprang  up  and  rang  for  the 
servant.  There  was  no  response.  I  rang  again 
and  again,  with  the  same  result.  Then  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  bell  was  out  of  order. 
I  huddled  on  my  clothes  and  hurried  downstairs 
in  an  exceedingly  bad  temper  to  order  some  hot 
water.  You  can  imagine  my  surprise  when  I 
found  that  there  was  no  one  there.  I  shouted 
in  the  hall.  There  was  no  answer.  Then  I  ran 
from  room  to  room.  All  were  deserted.  My 
host  had  shown  me  which  was  his  bedrom  the 
night  before,  so  I  knocked  at  the  door.  No  reply. 
I  turned  the  handle  and  walked  in.  The  room 
was  empty,  and  the  bed  had  never  been  slept 
in.  He  had  gone  with  the  rest.  The  foreign 
host,  the  foreign  footman,  the  foreign  cook,  all 
had  vanished  in  the  night!  That  was  the  end 
of  my  visit  to  Wisteria  Lodge." 

Sherlock  Holmes  was  rubbing  his  hands  and 
chuckling  as  he  added  this  bizarre  incident  to 
his  collection  of  strange  episodes. 

"Your  experience  is,  so  far  as  I  know,  per- 
fectly unique,"  said  he.  "May  I  ask,  sir,  what 
you  did  then?" 

"I  was  furious.     My  first  idea  was  that  I 

had  been  the  victim  of  some  absurd  practical 

joke.     I   packed  my  things,   banged  the   hall 

door  behind  me,  and  set  off  for  Esher,  with  my 

[20] 


THE  ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA   LODGE 

bag  in  my  hand.  I  called  at  Allan  Brothers', 
the  chief  land  agents  in  the  village,  and  found 
that  it  was  from  this  firm  that  the  villa  had 
been  rented.  It  struck  me  that  the  whole  pro- 
ceeding could  hardly  be  for  the  purpose  of 
making  a  fool  of  me,  and  that  the  main  object 
must  be  to  get  out  of  the  rent.  It  is  late  in 
March,  so  quarter-day  is  at  hand.  But  this 
theory  would  not  work.  The  agent  was  obliged 
to  me  for  my  warning,  but  told  me  that  the 
rent  had  been  paid  in  advance.  Then  I  made 
my  way  to  town  and  called  at  the  Spanish 
Embassy.  The  man  was  unknown  there.  After 
this  I  went  to  see  Melville,  at  whose  house  I 
had  first  met  Garcia,  but  I  found  that  he  really 
knew  rather  less  about  him  than  I  did.  Finally, 
when  I  got  your  reply  to  my  wire  I  came  out 
to  you,  since  I  gather  that  you  are  a  person 
who  gives  advice  in  difficult  cases.  But  now, 
Mr.  Inspector,  I  understand,  from  what  you  said 
when  you  entered  the  room,  that  you  can  carry 
the  story  on,  and  that  some  tragedy  has  occurred. 
I  can  assure  you  that  every  word  I  have  said 
is  the  truth,  and  that,  outside  of  what  I  have 
told  you,  I  know  absolutely  nothing  about  the 
fate  of  this  man.  My  only  desire  is  to  help  the 
law  in  every  possible  way." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,  Mr.  Scott  Eccles — I  am  sure 
of  it,"  said  Inspector  Gregson,  in  a  very  amia- 
ble tone.  "I  am  bound  to  say  that  everything 

[21] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


which  you  have  said  agrees  very  closely  with 
the  facts  as  they  have  come  to  our  notice.  For 
example,  there  was  that  note  which  arrived  dur- 
ing dinner.  Did  you  chance  to  observe  what 
became  of  it?" 

"Yes,  I  did.  Garcia  rolled  it  up  and  threw 
it  into  the  fire." 

"What  do  you  say  to  that,  Mr.  Baynes?" 

The  country  detective  was  a  stout,  puffy,  red 
man,  whose  face  was  only  redeemed  from  gross- 
ness  by  two  extraordinarily  bright  eyes,  almost 
hidden  behind  the  heavy  creases  of  cheek  and 
brow.  With  a  slow  smile  he  drew  a  folded  and 
discoloured  scrap  of  paper  from  his  pocket. 

"It  was  a  dog-grate,  Mr.  Holmes,  and  he  over- 
pitched  it.  I  picked  this  out  unburned  from  the 
back  of  it." 

Holmes  smiled  his  appreciation. 

"You  must  have  examined  the  house  very  care- 
fully, to  find  a  single  pellet  of  paper." 

"I  did,  Mr.  Holmes.  It's  my  way.  Shall  I 
read  it,  Mr.  Gregson?" 

The  Londoner  nodded. 

"The  note  is  written  upon  ordinary  cream- 
laid  paper  without  watermark.  It  is  a  quarter- 
sheet.  The  paper  is  cut  off  in  two  snips  with 
a  short-bladed  scissors.  It  has  been  folded  over 
three  times  and  sealed  with  purple  wax,  put  on 
hurriedly  and  pressed  down  with  some  flat,  oval 
object.  It  is  addressed  to  Mr.  Garcia,  Wisteria 
[22] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA   LODGE 

Lodge.  It  says:  'Our  own  colours,  green  and 
white.  Green  open,  white  shut.  Main  stair, 
first  corridor,  seventh  right,  green  baize.  God 
speed.  D/  It  is  a  woman's  writing,  done  with 
a  sharp-pointed  pen,  but  the  address  is  either  done 
with  another  pen  or  by  someone  else.  It  is  thicker 
and  bolder,  as  you  see." 

"A  very  remarkable  note,"  said  Holmes, 
glancing  it  over.  "I  must  compliment  you, 
Mr.  Baynes,  upon  your  attention  to  detail  in 
your  examination  of  it.  A  few  trifling  points 
might  perhaps  be  added.  The  oval  seal  is  un- 
doubtedly a  plain  sleeve-link — what  else  is  of  such 
a  shape?  The  scissors  were  bent  nail  scissors. 
Short  as  the  two  snips  are,  you  can  distinctly  see 
the  same  slight  curve  in  each." 

The  country  detective  chuckled. 

"I  thought  I  had  squeezed  all  the  juice  out 
of  it,  but  I  see  there  was  a  little  over,"  he  said. 
"I'm  bound  to  say  that  I  make  nothing  of  the 
note  except  that  there  was  something  on  hand, 
and  that  a  woman,  as  usual,  was  at  the  bottom 
of  it." 

Mr.  Scott  Eccles  had  fidgeted  in  his  seat' 
during  this  conversation. 

"I  am  glad  you  found  the  note,  since  it  cor- 
roborates my  story,"  said  he.  "But  I  beg  to 
point  out  that  I  have  not  yet  heard  what  has 
happened  to  Mr.  Garcia,  nor  what  has  become  of 
his  household." 

[23] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"As  to  Garcia,"  said  Gregson,  "that  is  easily 
answered.  He  was  found  dead  this  morning 
upon  Oxshott  Common,  nearly  a  mile  from  his 
home.  His  head  had  been  smashed  to  pulp 
by  heavy  blows  of  a  sand-bag  or  some  such 
instrument,  which  had  crushed  rather  than 
wounded.  It  is  a  lonely  corner,  and  there  is  no 
house  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  spot.  He 
had  apparently  been  struck  down  first  from 
behind,  but  his  assailant  had  gone  on  beating  him 
long  after  he  was  dead.  It  was  a  most  furious 
assault.  There  are  no  footsteps  nor  any  clue 
to  the  criminals." 

"Robbed?" 

"JXTo,  there  was  no  attempt  at  robbery." 

"This  is  very  painful — very  painful  and 
terrible,"  said  Mr.  Scott  Eccles,  in  a  querulous 
voice;  "but  it  is  really  uncommonly  hard  upon 
me.  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  my  host  going 
off  upon  a  nocturnal  excursion  and  meeting  so 
sad  an  end.  How  do  I  come  to  be  mixed  up 
with  the  case?" 

"Very  simply,  sir,"  Inspector  Baynes  an- 
swered. "The  only  document  found  in  the 
pocket  of  the  deceased  was  a  letter  from  you 
saying  that  you  would  be  with  him  on  the  night 
of  his  death.  It  was  the  envelope  of  this  letter 
which  gave  us  the  dead  man's  name  and  address. 
It  was  after  nine  this  morning  when  we  reached 
his  house  and  found  neither  you  nor  anyone 
[24] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA   LODGE 

else  inside  it.  I  wired  to  Mr.  Gregson  to  run 
you  down  in  London  while  I  examined  Wisteria 
Lodge.  Then  I  came  into  town,  joined  Mr. 
Gregson,  and  here  we  are." 

"I  think  now,"  said  Gregson,  rising,  "we 
had  best  put  this  matter  into  an  official  shape. 
You  will  come  round  with  us  to  the  station, 
Mr.  Scott  Eccles,  and  let  us  have  your  statement 
in  writing." 

"Certainly,  I  will  come  at  once.  But  I  retain 
your  services,  Mr.  Holmes.  I  desire  you  to 
spare  no  expense  and  no  pains  to  get  at  the 
truth." 

My  friend  turned  to  the  country  inspector. 

"I  suppose  that  you  have  no  objection  to  my 
collaborating  with  you,  Mr.  Baynes?" 

"Highly  honoured,  sir,  I  am  sure." 

"You  appear  to  have  been  very  prompt  and 
businesslike  in  all  that  you  have  done.  Was 
there  any  clue,  may  I  ask,  as  to  the  exact  hour 
that  the  man  met  his  death?" 

"He  had  been  there  since  one  o'clock.  There 
was  rain  about  that  time,  and  his  death  had 
certainly  been  before  the  rain." 

"But  that  is  perfectly  impossible,  Mr. 
Baynes,"  cried  our  client.  "His  voice  is  un- 
mistakable. I  could  swear  to  it  that  it  was  he 
who  addressed  me  in  my  bedroom  at  that  very 
hour." 

[25] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"Remarkable,  but  by  no  means  impossible," 
said  Holmes,  smiling. 

"You  have  a  clue?"  asked  Gregson. 

"On  the  face  of  it  the  case  is  not  a  very 
complex  one,  though  it  certainly  presents  some 
novel  and  interesting  features.  A  further  knowl- 
edge of  facts  is  necessary  before  I  would  venture 
to  give  a  final  and  definite  opinion.  By  the  way, 
Mr.  Baynes,  did  you  find  anything  remarkable 
besides  this  note  in  your  examination  of  the 
house?" 

The  detective  looked  at  my  friend  in  a  singular 
way. 

"There  were,"  said  he,  "one  or  two  very 
remarkable  things.  Perhaps  when  I  have  fin- 
ished at  the  police-station  you  would  care  to 
come  out  and  give  me  your  opinion  of  them." 

"I  am  entirely  at  your  service,"  said  Sherlock 
Holmes,  ringing  the  bell.  "You  will  show 
these  gentlemen  out,  Mrs.  Hudson,  and  kindly 
send  the  boy  with  this  telegram.  He  is  to  pay 
a  five-shilling  reply." 

We  sat  for  some  time  in  silence  after  our 
visitors  had  left.  Holmes  smoked  hard,  with 
his  brows  drawn  down  over  his  keen  eyes,  and 
his  head  thrust  forward  in  the  eager  way  charac- 
teristic of  the  man. 

"Well,  Watson,"  he  asked,  turning  suddenly 
upon  me,  "what  do  you  make  of  it?" 
[26] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF    WISTERIA   LODGE 

"I  can  make  nothing  of  this  mystification  of 
Scott  Eccles." 

"But  the  crime?" 

"Well,  taken  with  the  disappearance  of  the 
man's  companions,  I  should  say  that  they  were 
in  some  way  concerned  in  the  murder  and  had 
fled  from  justice." 

"That  is  certainly  a  possible  point  of  view. 
On  the  face  of  it  you  must  admit,  however,  that 
it  is  very  strange  that  his  two  servants  should 
have  been  in  a  conspiracy  against  him  and 
should  have  attacked  him  on  the  one  night 
when  he  had  a  guest.  They  had  him  alone  at  their 
mercy  every  other  night  in  the  week." 

"Then  why  did  they  fly?" 

"Quite  so.  Why  did  they  fly?  There  is 
a  big  fact.  Another  big  fact  is  the  remarkable 
experience  of  our  client,  Scott  Eccles.  Now, 
my  dear  Watson,  is  it  beyond  the  limits  of 
human  ingenuity  to  furnish  an  explanation 
which  would  cover  both  these  big  facts?  If 
it  were  one  which  would  also  admit  of  the  mys- 
terious note  with  its  very  curious  phraseology, 
why,  then  it  would  be  worth  accepting  as  a 
temporary  hypothesis.  If  the  fresh  facts  which 
come  to  our  knowledge  all  fit  themselves  into 
the  scheme,  then  our  hypothesis  may  gradually, 
become  a  solution." 

"But  what  is  our  hypothesis?" 

[27] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


Holmes  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  half- 
closed  eyes. 

"You  must  admit,  my  dear  Watson,  that  the 
idea  of  a  joke  is  impossible.  There  were  grave 
events  afoot,  as  the  sequel  showed,  and  the 
coaxing  of  Scott  Eccles  to  Wisteria  Lodge  had 
some  connection  with  them." 

"But  what  possible  connection?" 

"Let  us  take  it  link  by  link.  There  is,  on 
the  face  of  it,  something  unnatural  about  this 
strange  and  sudden  friendship  between  the 
young  Spaniard  and  Scott  Eccles.  It  was 
the  former  who  forced  the  pace.  He  called 
upon  Eccles  at  the  other  end  of  London  on  the 
very  day  after  he  first  met  him,  and  he  kept 
in  close  touch  with  him  until  he  got  him  down 
to  Esher.  Now,  what  did  he  want  with  Eccles? 
What  could  Eccles  supply?  I  see  no  charm  in 
the  man.  He  is  not  particularly  intelligent — 
not  a  man  likely  to  be  congenial  to  a  quick- 
witted Latin.  Why,  then,  was  he  picked  out 
from  all  the  other  people  whom  Garcia  met  as 
particularly  suited  to  his  purpose?  Has  he  any 
one  outstanding  quality?  I  say  that  he  has. 
He  is  the  very  type  of  conventional  British 
respectability,  and  the  very  man  as  a  witness  to 
impress  another  Briton.  You  saw  yourself  how 
neither  of  the  inspectors  dreamed  of  questioning 
his  statement,  extraordinary  as  it  was." 

"But  what  was  he  to  witness?" 
[28] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF    WISTERIA   LODGE 

"Nothing,  as  things  turned  out,  but  every- 
thing had  they  gone  another  way.  That  is  how 
I  read  the  matter." 

"I  see,  he  might  have  proved  an  alibi." 

"Exactly,  my  dear  Watson;  he  might  have 
proved  an  alibi.  We  will  suppose,  for  argu- 
ment's sake,  that  the  household  of  Wisteria 
Lodge  are  confederates  in  some  design.  The 
attempt,  whatever  it  may  be,  is  to  come  off,  we 
will  say,  before  one  o'clock.  By  some  juggling 
of  the  clocks  it  is  quite  possible  that  they  may 
have  got  Scott  Eccles  to  bed  earlier  than  he 
thought,  but  in  any  case  it  is  likely  that  when 
Garcia  went  out  of  his  way  to  tell  him  that  it 
was  one  it  was  really  not  more  than  twelve.  If 
Garcia  could  do  whatever  he  had  to  do  and  be 
back  by  the  hour  mentioned  he  had  evidently 
a  powerful  reply  to  any  accusation.  Here  was 
this  irreproachable  Englishman  ready  to  swear 
in  any  court  of  law  that  the  accused  was  in  his 
house  all  the  time.  It  was  an  insurance  against 
the  worst." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see  that.  But  how  about  the 
disappearance  of  the  others?" 

"I  have  not  all  my  facts  yet,  but  I  do 
not  think  there  are  any  insuperable  difficulties. 
Still,  it  is  an  error  to  argue  in  front  of  your  data. 
You  find  yourself  insensibly  twisting  them  round 
to  fit  your  theories." 

"And  the  message?" 

[29] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"How  did  it  run?  'Our  own  colours,  green 
and  white.'  Sounds  like  racing.  'Green  open, 
white  shut.'  That  is  clearly  a  signal.  'Main 
stair,  first  corridor,  seventh  right,  green  baize.' 
This  is  an  assignation.  We  may  find  a  jealous 
husband  at  the  bottom  of  it  all.  It  was  clearly 
a  dangerous  quest.  She  would  not  have  said 
'God  speed'  had  it  not  been  so.  'D.' — that  should 
be  a  guide." 

"The  man  was  a  Spaniard.  I  suggest  that 
*D'  stands  for  Dolores,  a  common  female  name 
in  Spain." 

"Good,  Watson,  very  good — but  quite  in- 
admissible. A  Spaniard  would  write  to  a 
Spaniard  in  Spanish.  The  writer  of  this  note 
is  certainly  English.  Well,  we  can  only  possess 
our  souls  in  patience,  until  this  excellent  in- 
spector comes  back  for  us.  Meanwhile  we  can 
thank  our  lucky  fate  which  has  rescued  us  for 
a  few  short  hours  from  the  insufferable  fatigues 
of  idleness." 

An  answer  had  arrived  to  Holmes's  telegram 
before  our  Surrey  officer  had  returned.  Holmes 
read  it,  and  was  about  to  place  it  in  his  note- 
book when  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  my  expectant 
face.  He  tossed  it  across  with  a  laugh. 

"We  are  moving  in  exalted  circles,"  said  he. 

The  telegram  was  a  list  of  names  and  ad- 
dresses: "Lord  Harringby,  The  Dingle;  Sir 
[30] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA   LODGE 

George  Ffolliott,  Oxshott  Towers;  Mr.  Hynes 
Hynes,  J.P.,  Purdey  Place;  Mr.  James  Baker 
Williams,  Forton  Old  Hall;  Mr.  Henderson, 
High  Gable;  Rev.  Joshua  Stone,  Nether  Wai- 
sling." 

"This  is  a  very  obvious  way  of  limiting  our 
field  of  operations,"  said  Holmes.  "No  doubt 
Baynes,  with  his  methodical  mind,  has  already 
adopted  some  similar  plan." 

"I  don't  quite  understand." 

"Well,  my  dear  fellow,  we  have  already 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the  message 
received  by  Garcia  at  dinner  was  an  appoint- 
ment or  an  assignation.  Now,  if  the  obvious 
reading  of  it  is  correct,  and  in  order  to  keep 
this  tryst  one  has  to  ascend  a  main  stair  and 
seek  the  seventh  door  in  a  corridor,  it  is  per- 
fectly clear  that  the  house  is  a  very  large  one. 
It  is  equally  certain  that  this  house  cannot  be 
more  than  a  mile  or  two  from  Oxshott,  since 
Garcia  was  walking  in  that  direction,  and  hoped, 
according  to  my  reading  of  the  facts,  to  be  back 
in  Wisteria  Lodge  in  time  to  avail  himself  of 
an  alibi,  which  would  only  be  valid  up  to  one 
o'clock.  As  the  number  of  large  houses  close 
to  Oxshott  must  be  limited,  I  adopted  the 
obvious  method  of  sending  to  the  agents  men- 
tioned by  Scott  Eccles  and  obtaining  a  list  of 
them.  Here  they  are  in  this  telegram,  and  the 

[31] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


other  end  of  our  tangled  skein  must  lie  among 
them." 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  before  we  found 
ourselves  in  the  pretty  Surrey  village  of  Esher, 
with  Inspector  Baynes  as  our  companion. 

Holmes  and  I  had  taken  things  for  the  night, 
and  found  comfortable  quarters  at  the  Bull. 
Finally  we  set  out  in  the  company  of  the  detec- 
tive on  our  visit  to  Wisteria  Lodge.  It  was  a 
cold,  dark  March  evening,  with  a  sharp  wind  and 
a  fine  rain  beating  upon  our  faces,  a  fit  setting 
for  the  wild  common  over  which  our  road  passed 
and  the  tragic  goal  to  which  it  led  us. 


II. — THE  TIGER  OF  SAN  PEDRO 

A  cold  and  melancholy  walk  of  a  couple  of 
miles  brought  us  to  a  high  wooden  gate,  which 
opened  into  a  gloomy  avenue  of  chestnuts.  The 
curved  and  shadowed  drive  led  us  to  a  low, 
dark  house,  pitch-black  against  a  slate-coloured 
sky.  From  the  front  window  upon  the  left  of 
the  door  there  peeped  a  glimmer  of  a  feeble  light. 

"There's  a  constable  in  possession,"  said 
Baynes.  "I'll  knock  at  the  window."  He 
stepped  across  the  grass  plot  and  tapped  with 
his  hand  on  the  pane.  Through  the  fogged 
glass  I  dimly  saw  a  man  spring  up  from  a  chair 
[32] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA   LODGE 

beside  the  fire,  and  heard  a  sharp  cry  from 
within  the  room.  An  instant  later  a  white- 
faced,  hard-breathing  policeman  had  opened 
the  door,  the  candle  wavering  in  his  trembling 
hand. 

"What's  the  matter,  Walters?"  asked  Baynes, 
sharply. 

The  man  mopped  his  forehead  with  his  hand- 
kerchief and  gave  a  long  sigh  of  relief. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come,  sir.  It  has  been 
a  long  evening  and  I  don't  think  my  nerve  is  as 
good  as  it  was." 

"Your  nerve,  Walters?  I  should  not  have 
thought  you  had  a  nerve  in  your  body." 

"Well,  sir,  it's  this  lonely,  silent  house  and 
the  queer  thing  in  the  kitchen.  Then  when  you 
tapped  at  the  window  I  thought  it  had  come 
again." 

"That  what  had  come  again?" 

"The  devil,  sir,  for  all  I  know.  It  was  at 
the  window." 

"What  was  at  the  window,  and  when?" 

"It  was  just  about  two  hours  ago.  The 
light  was  just  fading.  I  was  sitting  reading  in 
the  chair.  I  don't  know  what  made  me  look 
up,  but  there  was  a  face  looking  in  at  me 
through  the  lower  pane.  Lord,  sir,  what  a  face 
it  was!  I'll  see  it  in  my  dreams." 

"Tut,  tut,  Walters!;  Thi«  is  not  talk  for  a 
police-constable." 

[33] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"I  know,  sir,  I  know;  but  it  shook  me,  sir, 
and  there's  no  use  to  deny  it.  It  wasn't  black, 
sir,  nor  was  it  white,  nor  any  colour  that  I  know, 
but  a  kind  of  queer  shade  like  clay  with  a  splash 
of  milk  in  it.  Then  there  was  the  size  of  it — 
it  was  twice  yours,  sir.  And  the  look  of  it — 
the  great  staring  goggle  eyes,  and  the  line  of 
white  teeth  like  a  hungry  beast.  I  tell  you, 
sir,  I  couldn't  move  a  finger,  nor  get  my  breath, 
till  it  whisked  away  and  was  gone.  Out  I  ran 
and  through  the  shrubbery,  but  thank  God 
there  was  no  one  there." 

"If  I  didn't  know  you  were  a  good  man, 
Walters,  I  should  put  a  black  mark  against  you 
for  this.  If  it  were  the  devil  himself  a  constable 
on  duty  should  never  thank  God  that  he  could 
not  lay  his  hands  upon  him.  I  suppose  the 
whole  thing  is  not  a  vision  and  a  touch  of 
nerves?" 

"That,  at  least,  is  very  easily  settled,"  said 
Holmes,  lighting  his  little  pocket  lantern. 
"Yes,"  he  reported,  after  a  short  examination 
of  the  grass  bed,  "a  number  twelve  shoe,  I 
should  say.  If  he  was  all  on  the  same  scale  as 
his  foot  he  must  certainly  have  been  a  giant." 

"What  became  of  him?" 

"He  seems  to  have  broken  through  the 
shrubbery  and  made  for  the  road." 

"Well,"  said  the  inspector,  with  a  grave  and 
thoughtful  face,  "whoever  he  may  have  been, 
[34] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA  LODGE 

and  whatever  he  may  have  wanted,  he's  gone 
for  the  present,  and  we  have  more  immediate 
things  to  attend  to.  Now,  Mr.  Holmes,  with 
your  permission,  I  will  show  you  round  the 
house." 

The  various  bedrooms  and  sitting-rooms  had 
yielded  nothing  to  a  careful  search.  Apparently 
the  tenants  had  brought  little  or  nothing  with 
them,  and  all  the  furniture  down  to  the  smallest 
details  had  been  taken  over  with  the  house. 
A  good  deal  of  clothing  with  the  stamp  of  Marx 
and  Co.,  High  Holborn,  had  been  left  behind., 
Telegraphic  inquiries  had  been  already  made 
which  showed  that  Marx  knew  nothing  of  his 
customer  save  that  he  was  a  good  payer.  Odds 
and  ends,  some  pipes,  a  few  novels,  two  of  them 
in  Spanish,  an  old-fashioned  pinflre  revolver, 
and  a  guitar  were  amongst  the  personal  property. 

"Nothing  in  all  this,"  said  Baynes,  stalking, 
candle  in  hand,  from  room  to  room.  "But 
now,  Mr.  Holmes,  I  invite  your  attention  to 
the  kitchen." 

It  was  a  gloomy,  high-ceilinged  room  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  with  a  straw  litter  in  one 
corner,  which  served  apparently  as  a  bed  for 
the  cook.  The  table  was  piled  with  half-eaten 
dishes  and  dirty  plates,  the  debris  of  last  night's 
dinner. 

"Look  at  this,"  said  Baynes.  "What  do 
you  make  of  it?" 

[35] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


He  held  up  his  candle  before  an  extraordinary 
object  which  stood  at  the  back  of  the  dresser. 
It  was  so  wrinkled  and  shrunken  and  withered 
that  it  was  difficult  to  say  what  it  might  have 
been.  One  could  but  say  that  it  was  black 
and  leathery  and  that  it  bore  some  resemblance 
to  a  dwarfish,  human  figure.  At  first,  as  I 
examined  it,  I  thought  that  it  was  a  mummified 
negro  baby,  and  then  it  seemed  a  very  twisted 
and  ancient  monkey.  Finally  I  was  left  in 
doubt  as  to  whether  it  was  animal  or  human. 
A  double  band  of  white  shells  was  strung  round 
the  centre  of  it. 

"Very  interesting — very  interesting,  indeed!" 
said  Holmes  peering  at  this  sinister  relic.  "Any- 
thing more?" 

In  silence  Baynes  led  the  way  to  the  sink  and 
held  forward  his  candle.  The  limbs  and  body 
of  some  large,  white  bird,  torn  savagely  to 
pieces  with  the  feathers  still  on,  were  littered  all 
over  it.  Holmes  pointed  to  the  wattles  on  the 
severed  head. 

"A  white  cock,"  said  he;  most  interesting!  It 
is  really  a  very  curious  case." 

But  Mr.  Baynes  had  kept  his  most  sinister 
exhibit  to  the  last.  From  under  the  sink  he 
drew  a  zinc  pail  which  contained  a  quantity 
of  blood.  Then  from  the  table  he  took  a 
platter  heaped  with  small  pieces  of  charred 
bone. 

[36] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA  LODGE 

"Something  has  been  killed  and  something 
has  been  burned.  We  raked  all  these  out  of 
the  fire.  We  had  a  doctor  in  this  morning. 
He  says  that  they  are  not  human." 

Holmes  smiled  and  rubbed  his  hands. 

"I  must  congratulate  you,  inspector,  on 
handling  so  distinctive  and  instructive  a  case. 
Your  powers,  if  I  may  say  so  without  offence, 
seem  superior  to  your  opportunities." 

Inspector  Baynes's  small  eyes  twinkled  with 
pleasure. 

"You're  right,  Mr.  Holmes.  We  stagnate  in 
the  provinces.  A  case  of  this  sort  gives  a  man 
a  chance,  and  I  hope  that  I  shall  take  it.  What 
do  you  make  of  these  bones?" 

"A  lamb,  I  should  say,  or  a  kid." 

"And  the  white  cock?" 

"Curious,  Mr.  Baynes,  very  curious.  I  should 
say  almost  unique." 

"Yes,  sir,  there  must  have  been  some  very 
strange  people  with  some  very  strange  ways  in 
this  house.  One  of  them  is  dead.  Did  his 
companions  follow  him  and  kill  him?  If  they 
did  we  should  have  them,  for  every  port  is 
watched.  But  my  own  views  are  different. 
Yes,  sir,  my  own  views  are  very  different." 

"You  have  a  theory  then?" 

"And  I'll  work  it  myself,  Mr.  Holmes.  It's 
only  due  to  my  own  credit  to  do  so.  Your 
name  is  made,  but  I  have  still  to  make  mine. 

[37] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


I  should  be  glad  to  be  able  to  say  afterwards 
that  I  had  solved  it  without  your  help." 

Holmes  laughed  good-humouredly. 

"Well,  well,  inspector,"  said  he.  "Do  you 
follow  your  path  and  I  will  follow  mine.  My 
results  are  always  very  much  at  your  service 
if  you  care  to  apply  to  me  for  them.  I  think 
that  I  have  seen  all  that  I  wish  in  this  house, 
and  that  my  time  may  be  more  profitably 
employed  elsewhere.  Au  revoir  and  good  luck!" 

I  could  tell  by  numerous  subtle  signs,  which 
might  have  been  lost  upon  anyone  but  myself, 
that  Holmes  was  on  a  hot  scent.  As  impassive 
as  ever  to  the  casual  observer,  there  were  none 
the  less  a  subdued  eagerness  and  suggestion  of 
tension  in  his  brightened  eyes  and  brisker 
manner  which  assured  me  that  the  game  was 
afoot.  After  his  habit  he  said  nothing,  and 
after  mine  I  asked  no  questions.  Sufficient  for 
me  to  share  the  sport  and  lend  my  humble 
help  to  the  capture  without  distracting  that 
intent  brain  with  needless  interruption.  All 
would  come  round  to  me  in  due  time. 

I  waited,  therefore — but,  to  my  ever-deepen- 
ing disappointment  I  waited  in  vain.  Day 
succeeded  day,  and  my  friend  took  no  step 
forward.  One  morning  he  spent  in  town,  and 
I  learned  from  a  casual  reference  that  he  had 
visited  the  British  Museum.  Save  for  this  one 
excursion,  he  spent  his  days  in  long,  and  often 
[38] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF    WISTERIA   LODGE 

solitary  walks,  or  in  chatting  with  a  number  of 
village  gossips  whose  acquaintance  he  had  cul- 
tivated. 

"I'm  sure,  Watson,  a  week  in  the  country 
will  be  invaluable  to  you,"  he  remarked.  "It 
is  very  pleasant  to  see  the  first  green  shoots 
upon  the  hedges  and  the  catkins  on  the  hazels 
once  again.  With  a  spud,  a  tin  box,  and  an  ele- 
mentary book  on  botany,  there  are  instructive 
days  to  be  spent."  He  prowled  about  with  this 
equipment  himself,  but  it  was  a  poor  show  of 
plants  which  he  would  bring  back  of  an  evening. 

Occasionally  in  our  rambles  we  came  across 
Inspector  Baynes.  His  fat,  red  face  wreathed 
itself  in  smiles  and  his  small  eyes  glittered  as 
he  greeted  my  companion.  He  said  little  about 
the  case,  but  from  that  little  we  gathered  that 
he  also  was  not  dissatisfied  at  the  course  of 
events.  I  must  admit,  however,  that  I  was  some- 
what surprised  when,  some  five  days  after  the 
crime,  I  opened  my  morning  paper  to  find  in 
large  letters: 

"THE  OXSHOTT  MYSTERY 

A  SOLUTION 
ARREST  OF  SUPPOSED  ASSASSIN." 

Holmes  sprang  in  his  chair  as  if  he  had  been 
stung  when  I  read  the  head-lines. 

[39] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"By  Jove!"  he  cried.  "You  don't  mean  that 
Baynes  has  got  him?" 

"Apparently,"  said  I,  as  I  read  the  following 
report : 

"Great  excitement  was  caused  in  Esher  and 
the  neighbouring  district  when  it  was  learned 
late  last  night  that  an  arrest  had  been  affected 
in  connection  with  the  Oxshott  murder.  It 
will  be  remembered  that  Mr.  Garcia,  of  Wisteria 
Lodge,  was  found  dead  on  Oxshott  Common, 
his  body  showing  signs  of  extreme  violence,  and 
that  on  the  same  night  his  servant  and  his  cook 
fled,  which  appeared  to  show  their  participa- 
tion in  the  crime.  It  was  suggested,  but  never 
proved,  that  the  deceased  gentleman  may  have 
had  valuables  in  the  house,  and  that  their 
abstraction  was  the  motive  of  the  crime.  Every 
effort  was  made  by  Inspector  Baynes,  who  has 
the  case  in  hand,  to  ascertain  the  hiding  place 
of  the  fugitives,  and  he  had  good  reason  to 
believe  that  they  had  not  gone  far,  but  were 
lurking  in  some  retreat  which  had  been  already 
prepared.  It  was  certain  from  the  first,  how- 
ever, that  they  would  eventually  be  detected,  as 
the  cook,  from  the  evidence  of  one  or  two 
tradespeople  who  have  caught  a  glimpse  of  him 
through  the  window,  was  a  man  of  most  remark- 
able appearance — being  a  huge  and  hideous 
mulatto,  with  yellowish  features  of  a  pronounced 
negroid  type.  This  man  has  been  seen  since 
the  crime,  for  he  was  detected  and  pursued  by 
[40] 


THE  ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA  LODGE 

Constable  Walters  on  the  same  evening,  when 
he  had  the  audacity  to  revisit  Wisteria  Lodge. 
Inspector  Baynes,  considering  that  such  a  visit 
must  have  some  purpose  in  view,  and  was  likely, 
therefore,  to  be  repeated,  abandoned  the  house, 
but  left  an  ambuscade  in  the  shrubbery.  The 
man  walked  into  the  trap,  and  was  captured 
last  night  after  a  struggle,  in  which  Constable 
Downing  was  badly  bitten  by  the  savage.  We 
understand  that  when  the  prisoner  is  brought 
before  the  magistrates  a  remand  will  be  applied 
for  by  the  police,  and  that  great  developments 
are  hoped  from  his  capture." 

"Really  we  must  see  Baynes  at  once,"  cried 
Holmes,  picking  up  his  hat.  "We  will  just 
catch  him  before  he  starts."  We  hurried  down 
the  village  street  and  found,  as  we  had  ex- 
pected, that  the  inspector  was  just  leaving  his 
lodgings. 

"You've  seen  the  paper,  Mr.  Holmes?"  he 
asked,  holding  one  out  to  us. 

"Yes,  Baynes,  I've  seen  it.  Pray  don't 
think  it  a  liberty  if  I  give  you  a  word  of  friendly 
warning." 

"Of  warning,  Mr.  Holmes?" 

"I  have  looked  into  this  case  with  some  care, 
and  I  am  not  convinced  that  you  are  on  the  right 
lines.  I  don't  want  you  to  commit  yourself  too 
far.  unless  vou  are  sure." 

[41] 


HIS   LAST    BOW 


"You're  very  kind,  Mr.  Holmes." 

"I  assure  you  I  speak  for  your  good." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  something  like  a  wink 
quivered  for  an  instant  over  one  of  Mr.  Baynes's 
tiny  eyes. 

"We  agreed  to  work  on  our  own  lines,  Mr. 
Holmes.  That's  what  I  am  doing." 

"Oh,  very  good,"  said  Holmes.  "Don't  blame 
me." 

"No,  sir;  I  believe  you  mean  well  by  me. 
But  we  all  have  our  own  systems,  Mr.  Holmes. 
You  have  yours,  and  maybe  I  have  mine." 

"Let  us  say  no  more  about  it." 

"You're  welcome  always  to  my  news.  This 
fellow  is  a  perfect  savage,  as  strong  as  a  cart- 
horse and  as  fierce  as  the  devil.  He  chewed 
Downing's  thumb  nearly  off  before  they  could 
master  him.  He  hardly  speaks  a  word  of 
English,  and  we  can  get  nothing  out  of  him  but 
grunts." 

"And  you  think  you  have  evidence  that  he 
murdered  his  late  master?" 

"I  didn't  say  so,  Mr.  Holmes;  I  didn't  say 
so.  We  all  have  our  little  ways.  You  try 
yours  and  I  will  try  mine.  That's  the  agree- 
ment." 

Holmes  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  we  walked 
away  together.  "I  can't  make  the  man  out. 
He  seems  to  be  riding  for  a  fall.  Well,  as  he 
[42] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA   LODGE 

says,  we  must  each  try  our  own  way  and  see 
what  comes  of  it.  But  there's  something  in 
Inspector  Baynes  which  I  can't  quite  under- 
stand." 

"Just  sit  down  in  that  chair,  Watson,"  said 
Sherlock  Holmes,  when  we  had  returned  to  our 
apartment  at  the  Bull.  "I  want  to  put  you  in 
touch  with  the  situation,  as  I  may  need  your 
help  to-night.  Let  me  show  you  the  evolution 
of  this  case,  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  follow 
it.  Simple  as  it  has  been  in  its  leading  fea- 
tures, it  has  none  the  less  presented  surprising 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  an  arrest.  There  are 
gaps  in  that  direction  which  we  have  still  to 
fill. 

"We  will  go  back  to  the  note  which  was 
handed  in  to  Garcia  upon  the  evening  of  his 
death.  We  may  put  aside  this  idea  of  Baynes's 
that  Garcia's  servants  were  concerned  in  the 
matter.  The  proof  of  this  lies  in  the  fact  that 
it  was  he  who  had  arranged  for  the  presence  of 
Scott  Eccles,  which  could  only  have  been  done 
for  the  purpose  of  an  alibi.  It  was  Garcia,  then, 
who  had  an  enterprise,  and  apparently  a  criminal 
enterprise,  in  hand  that  night,  in  the  course  of 
which  he  met  his  death.  I  say  criminal  because 
only  a  man  with  a  criminal  enterprise  desires  to 
establish  an  alibi.  Who,  then  is  most  likely  to 
have  taken  his  life?  Surely  the  person  against 

[43] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


whom  the  criminal  enterprise  was  directed.  So 
far  it  seems  to  me  that  we  are  on  safe  ground. 

"We  can  now  see  a  reason  for  the  disappear- 
ance of  Garcia's  household.  They  were  all 
confederates  in  the  same  unknown  crime.  If 
it  came  off  then  Garcia  returned,  any  possible 
suspicion  would  be  warded  off  by  the  English- 
man's evidence,  and  all  would  be  well.  But 
the  attempt  was  a  dangerous  one,  and  if  Garcia 
did  not  return  by  a  certain  hour  it  was  probable 
that  his  own  life  had  been  sacrificed.  It  had 
been  arranged,  therefore,  that  in  such  a  case  his 
two  subordinates  were  to  make  for  some  pre- 
arranged spot,  where  they  could  escape  investi- 
gation and  be  in  a  position  afterwards  to  renew 
their  attempt.  That  would  fully  explain  the 
facts,  would  it  not?" 

The  whole  inexplicable  tangle  seemed  to 
straighten  out  before  me.  I  wondered,  as  I 
always  did,  how  it  had  not  been  obvious  to  me 
before. 

"But  why  should  one  servant  return?" 

"We  can  imagine  that,  in  the  confusion  of 
flight,  something  precious,  something  which  he 
could  not  bear  to  part  with,  had  been  left  behind. 
That  would  explain  his  persistence,  would  it 
not?" 

"Well,  what  is  the  next  step?" 

"The  next  step  is  the  note  received  by 
Garcia  at  the  dinner.  It  indicates  a  con- 
[44] 


THE  ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA  LODGE 

federate  at  the  other  end.  Now,  where  was  the 
other  end?  I  have  already  shown  you  that  it 
could  only  lie  in  some  large  house,  and  that  the 
number  of  large  houses  is  limited.  My  first 
days  in  this  village  were  devoted  to  a  series  of 
walks,  in  which  in  the  intervals  of  my  botanical 
researches  I  made  a  reconnaissance  of  all  the 
large  houses  and  an  examination  of  the  family 
history  of  the  occupants.  One  house,  and  only 
one,  riveted  my  attention.  It  is  the  famous 
old  Jacobean  grange  of  High  Gable,  one  mile 
on  the  farther  side  of  Oxshott,  and  less  than 
half  a  mile  from  the  scene  of  the  tragedy. 
The  other  mansions  belonged  to  prosaic  and 
respectable  people  who  live  far  aloof  from 
romance.  But  Mr.  Henderson,  of  High  Gable, 
was  by  all  accounts  a  curious  man,  to  whom 
curious  adventures  might  befall.  I  concentrated 
my  attention,  therefore,  upon  him  and  his 
household. 

"A  singular  set  of  people,  Watson — the  man 
himself  the  most  singular  of  them  all.  I  man- 
aged to  see  him  on  a  plausible  pretext,  but 
I  seemed  to  read  in  his  dark,  deep-set,  brooding 
eyes  that  he  was  perfectly  aware  of  my  true 
business.  He  is  a  man  of  fifty,  strong,  active, 
with  iron-grey  hair,  great  bunched  black  eye- 
brows, the  step  of  a  deer,  and  the  air  of  an 
emperor — a  fierce,  masterful  man,  with  a  red- 
hot  spirit  behind  his  parchment  face.  He  is 

[45] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


either  a  foreigner  or  has  lived  long  in  the  Tropics, 
for  he  is  yellow  and  sapless,  but  tough  as  whip- 
cord. His  friend  and  secretary,  Mr.  Lucas,  is 
undoubtedly  a  foreigner,  chocolate  brown,  wily, 
suave  and  cat-like  with  a  poisonous  gentleness 
of  speech.  You  see,  Watson,  we  have  come 
already  upon  two  sets  of  foreigners — one  at 
Wisteria  Lodge  and  one  at  High  Gable — so  our 
gaps  are  beginning  to  close. 

"These  two  men,  close  and  confidential 
friends,  are  the  centre  of  the  household;  but 
there  is  one  other  person,  who  for  our  immediate 
purpose  may  be  even  more  important.  Hen- 
derson has  two  children — girls  of  eleven  and 
thirteen.  Their  governess  is  a  Miss  Burnet,  an 
Englishwoman  of  forty  or  thereabouts.  There 
is  also  one  confidential  manservant.  This  little 
group  forms  the  real  family,  for  they  travel 
about  together,  and  Henderson  is  a  great 
traveller,  always  on  the  move.  It  is  only 
within  the  last  few  weeks  that  he  has  returned, 
after  a  year's  absence,  to  High  Gable.  I  may 
add  that  he  is  enormously  rich,  and  whatever 
his  whims  may  be  he  can  very  easily  satisfy 
them.  For  the  rest,  his  house  is  full  of  butlers, 
footmen,  maidservants,  and  the  usual  overfed, 
underworked  staff  of  a  large  English  country- 
house. 

"So  much  I  learned  partly  from  village 
gossip  and  partly  from  my  own  observation. 
[46] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA   LODGE 

There  are  no  better  instruments  than  discharged 
servants  with  a  grievance,  and  I  was  lucky 
enough  to  find  one.  I  call  it  luck,  but  it  would 
not  have  come  my  way  had  I  not  been  looking 
out  for  it.  As  Baynes  remarks,  we  all  have  our 
systems.  It  was  my  system  which  enabled  me 
to  find  John  Warner,  late  gardener  of  High 
Gable,  sacked  in  a  moment  of  temper  by  his 
imperious  employer.  He  in  turn  had  friends 
among  the  indoor  servants,  who  unite  in  their 
fear  and  dislike  of  their  master.  So  I  had  my 
key  to  the  secrets  of  the  establishment. 

"Curious  people,  Watson!  I  don't  pretend 
to  understand  it  all  yet,  but  very  curious  people 
anyway.  It's  a  double-winged  house,  and  the 
servants  live  on  one  side,  the  family  on  the 
other.  There's  no  link  between  the  two  save  for 
Henderson's  own  servant,  who  serves  the  family's 
meals.  Everything  is  carried  to  a  certain  door, 
which  forms  the  one  connection.  Governess  and 
children  hardly  go  out  at  all,  except  into  the 
garden.  Henderson  never  by  any  chance  walks 
alone.  His  dark  secretary  is  like  his  shadow. 
The  gossip  among  the  servants  is  that  their 
master  is  terribly  afraid  of  something.  'Sold 
his  soul  to  the  devil  in  exchange  for  money/ 
says  Warner,  'and  expects  his  creditor  to 
come  up  and  claim  his  own.'  Where  they  came 
from,  or  who  they  are,  nobody  has  an  idea. 
They  are  very  violent.  Twice  Henderson  has 

[47] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


lashed  at  folk  with  his  dog-whip,  and  only  his 
long  purse  and  heavy  compensation  have  kept 
him  out  of  the  courts. 

"Well,  now,  Watson,  let  us  judge  the  situa- 
tion by  this  new  information.  We  may  take 
it  that  the  letter  came  out  of  this  strange 
household,  and  was  an  invitation  to  Garcia  to 
carry  out  some  attempt  which  had  already  been 
planned.  Who  wrote  the  note?  It  was  some- 
one within  the  citadel,  and  it  was  a  woman. 
Who  then,  but  Miss  Burnet,  the  governess? 
All  our  reasoning  seems  to  point  that  way.  At 
any  rate,  we  may  take  it  as  a  hypothesis,  and 
see  what  consequences  it  would  entail.  I  may 
add  that  Miss  Burnet's  age  and  character  make 
it  certain  that  my  first  idea  that  there  might 
be  a  love  interest  in  our  story  is  out  of  the 
question. 

"If  she  wrote  the  note  she  was  presumably 
the  friend  and  confederate  of  Garcia.  What, 
then,  might  she  be  expected  to  do  if  she  heard 
of  his  death?  If  he  met  it  in  some  nefarious 
enterprise  her  lips  might  be  sealed.  Still,  in 
her  heart  she  must  retain  bitterness  and  hatred 
against  those  who  had  killed  him,  and  would 
presumably  help  so  far  as  she  could  to  have 
revenge  upon  them.  Could  we  see  her,  then 
and  try  to  use  her?  That  was  my  first  thought. 
But  now  we  come  to  a  sinister  fact.  Miss 
Burnet  has  not  been  seen  by  any  human  eye 
[48] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA   LODGE 

since  the  night  of  the  murder.  From  that 
evening  she  has  utterly  vanished.  Is  she  alive? 
Has  she  perhaps  met  her  end  on  the  same  night 
as  the  friend  whom  she  had  summoned?  Or 
is  she  merely  a  prisoner?  There  is  the  point  which 
we  still  have  to  decide. 

"You  will  appreciate  the  difficulty  of  the 
situation,  Watson.  There  is  nothing  upon  which 
we  can  apply  for  a  warrant.  Our  whole 
scheme  might  seem  fantastic  if  laid  before  a 
magistrate.  The  woman's  disappearance  counts 
for  nothing,  since  in  that  extraordinary  house- 
hold any  member  of  it  might  be  invisible  for  a 
week.  And  yet  she  may  at  the  present  moment 
be  in  danger  of  her  life.  All  I  can  do  is  to  watch 
the  house  and  leave  my  agent,  Warner,  on  guard 
at  the  gates.  We  can't  let  such  a  situation  con- 
tinue. If  the  law  can  do  nothing  we  must  take 
the  risk  ourselves." 

"What  do  you  suggest?" 

"I  know  which  is  her  room.  It  is  accessible 
from  the  top  of  an  outhouse.  My  suggestion  is 
that  you  and  I  go  to-night  and  see  if  we  can 
strike  at  the  very  heart  of  the  mystery." 

It  was  not,  I  must  confess,  a  very  alluring 
prospect.  The  old  house  with  its  atmosphere 
of  murder,  the  singular  and  formidable  inhabi- 
tants, the  unknown  dangers  of  the  approach, 
and  the  fact  that  we  were  putting  ourselves 
legally  in  a  false  position,  all  combined  to  damp 

[49] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


my  ardour.  But  there  was  something  in  the 
ice-cold  reasoning  of  Holmes  which  made  it 
impossible  to  shrink  from  any  adventure  which 
he  might  recommend.  One  knew  that  thus, 
and  only  thus,  could  a  solution  be  found.  I 
clasped  his  hand  in  silence,  and  the  die  was 
cast. 

But  it  was  not  destined  that  our  investigation 
should  have  so  adventurous  an  ending.  It  was 
about  five  o'clock,  and  the  shadows  of  the 
March  evening  were  beginning  to  fall,  when  an 
excited  rustic  rushed  into  our  room. 

"They've  gone,  Mr.  Holmes.  They  went  by 
the  last  train.  The  lady  broke  away,  and  I've 
got  her  in  a  cab  downstairs." 

"Excellent,  Warner!"  cried  Holmes,  spring- 
ing to  his  feet.  "Watson,  the  gaps  are  closing 
rapidly." 

In  the  cab  was  a  woman,  half -collapsed  from 
nervous  exhaustion.  She  bore  upon  her  aquiline 
and  emaciated  face  the  traces  of  some  recent 
tragedy.  Her  head  hung  listlessly  upon  her 
breast,  but  as  she  raised  it  and  turned  her  dull 
eyes  upon  us,  I  saw  that  her  pupils  were  dark 
dots  in  the  centre  of  the  broad  grey  iris.  She 
was  drugged  with  opium. 

"I  watched  at  the  gate,  same  as  you  advised, 

Mr.  Holmes,"  said  our  emissary,  the  discharged 

gardener.     "When    the    carriage    came    out    I 

followed  it  to  the  station.     She  was  like  one 

[50] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF    WISTERIA   LODGE 

walking  in  her  sleep;  but  when  they  tried  to 
get  her  into  the  train  she  came  to  life  and 
struggled.  They  pushed  her  into  the  carriage. 
She  fought  her  way  out  again.  I  took  her  part, 
got  her  into  a  cab,  and  here  we  are.  I  shan't 
forget  the  face  at  the  carriage  window  as  I 
led  her  away.  I'd  have  a  short  life  if  he 
had  his  way — the  black-eyed,  scowling,  yellow 
devil." 

We  carried  her  upstairs,  laid  her  on  the  sofa, 
and  a  couple  of  cups  of  the  strongest  coffee  soon 
cleared  her  brain  from  the  mists  of  the  drug. 
Baynes  had  been  summoned  by  Holmes,  and  the 
situation  rapidly  explained  to  him. 

"Why,  sir,  you've  got  me  the  very  evidence  I 
want,"  said  the  inspector,  warmly,  shaking  my 
friend  by  the  hand.  "I  was  on  the  same  scent 
as  you  from  the  first." 

"What!    You  were  after  Henderson?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Holmes,  when  you  were  crawling 
in  the  shrubbery  at  High  Gable  I  was  up  one  of 
the  trees  in  the  plantation  and  saw  you  down 
below.  It  was  just  who  would  get  his  evidence 
first." 

"Then  why  did  you  arrest  the  mulatto?" 

Baynes  chuckled. 

"I  was  sure  Henderson,  as  he  calls  himself, 
felt  that  he  was  suspected,  and  that  he  would 
lie  low  and  make  no  move  so  long  as  he  thought 
he  was  in  any  danger.  I  arrested  the  wrong  man 

[51] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


to  make  him  believe  that  our  eyes  were  off  him. 
I  knew  he  would  be  likely  to  clear  off  then  and 
give  us  a  chance  of  getting  at  Miss  Burnet." 

Holmes  laid  his  hand  upon  the  inspector's 
shoulder. 

"You  will  rise  high  in  your  profession.  You 
have  instinct  and  intuition,"  said  he. 

Baynes  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"I've  had  a  plain-clothes  man  waiting  at  the 
station  all  the  week.  Wherever  the  High  Gable 
folk  go  he  will  keep  them  in  sight.  But  he  must 
have  been  hard  put  to  it  when  Miss  Burnet  broke 
away.  However,  your  man  picked  her  up,  and 
it  all  ends  well.  We  can't  arrest  without  her 
evidence,  that  is  clear,  so  the  sooner  we  get  a 
statement  the  better." 

"Every  minute  she  gets  stronger,"  said 
Holmes,  glancing  at  the  governess.  "But  tell 
me,  Baynes,  who  is  this  man  Henderson?" 

"Henderson,"  the  inspector  answered,  "is  Don 
Murillo,  once  called  the  Tiger  of  San  Pedro." 

The  Tiger  of  San  Pedro!  The  whole  history 
of  the  man  came  back  to  me  in  a  flash.  He  had 
made  his  name  as  the  most  lewd  and  blood- 
thirsty tyrant  that  had  ever  governed  any 
country  with  a  pretence  to  civilization.  Strong, 
fearless,  and  energetic,  he  had  sufficient  virtue 
to  enable  him  to  impose  his  odious  vices  upon  a 
cowering  people  for  ten  or  twelve  years.  His 
name  was  a  terror  through  all  Central  America. 
[52] 


THE   ADVENTURE    OF    WISTERIA   LODGE 

At  the  end  of  that  time  there  was  a  universal 
rising  against  him.  But  he  was  as  cunning  as 
he  was  cruel,  and  at  the  first  whisper  of  coming 
trouble  he  had  secretly  conveyed  his  treasures 
aboard  a  ship  which  was  manned  by  devoted 
adherents.  It  was  an  empty  palace  which  was 
stormed  by  the  insurgents  next  day.  The 
Dictator,  his  two  children,  his  secretary,  and  his 
wealth  had  all  escaped  them.  From  that  moment 
he  had  vanished  from  the  world,  and  his  identity 
had  been  a  frequent  subject  for  comment  in 
the  European  Press. 

"Yes,  sir;  Don  Murillo,  the  Tiger  of  San 
Pedro,"  said  Baynes.  "If  you  look  it  up  you 
will  find  that  the  San  Pedro  colours  are  green 
and  white,  same  as  in  the  note,  Mr.  Holmes. 
Henderson  he  called  himself,  but  I  traced  him 
back,  Paris  and  Rome  and  Madrid  to  Barcelona, 
where  his  ship  came  in  in  '86.  They've  been 
looking  for  him  all  the  time  for  their  revenge, 
but  it  is  only  now  that  they  have  begun  to  find 
him  out." 

"They  discovered  him  a  year  ago,"  said 
Miss  Burnet,  who  had  sat  up  and  was  now 
intently  following  the  conversation.  "Once 
already  his  life  has  been  attempted;  but  some 
evil  spirit  shielded  him.  Now,  again,  it  is  the 
noble,  chivalrous  Garcia  who  has  fallen,  while 
the  monster  goes  safe.  But  another  will  come, 
and  yet  another,  until  some  day  justice  will 

[53] 


HIS   LAST    BOW 


be  done;  that  is  as  certain  as  the  rise  of  to- 
morrow's sun."  Her  thin  hands  clenched,  and 
her  worn  face  blanched  with  the  passion  of  her 
hatred. 

"But  how  come  you  into  this  matter,  Miss 
Burnet?"  asked  Holmes.  "How  can  an  Eng- 
lish lady  join  in  such  a  murderous  affair?" 

"I  join  in  it  because  there  is  no  other  way  in 
the  world  by  which  justice  can  be  gained. 
What  does  the  law  of  England  care  for  the 
rivers  of  blood  shed  years  ago  in  San  Pedro, 
or  for  the  ship-load  of  treasure  which  this  man 
has  stolen?  To  you  they  are  like  crimes  com- 
mitted in  some  other  planet.  But  we  know.  We 
have  learned  the  truth  in  sorrow  and  in  suffer- 
ing. To  us  there  is  no  fiend  in  hell  like  Juan 
Murillo,  and  no  peace  in  life  while  his  victims 
still  cry  for  vengeance." 

"No  doubt,"  said  Holmes,  "he  was  as  you 
say.  I  have  heard  that  he  was  atrocious.  But 
how  are  you  affected?" 

"I  will  tell  you  it  all.  This  villain's  policy 
was  to  murder,  on  one  pretext  or  another, 
every  man  who  showed  such  promise  that  he 
might  in  time  come  to  be  a  dangerous  rival. 
My  husband — yes,  my  real  name  is  Signora 
Victor  Durando — was  the  San  Pedro  Minister 
in  London.  He  met  me  and  married  me  there. 
A  nobler  man  never  lived  upon  earth.  Un- 
happily, Murillo  heard  of  his  excellence,  recalled 
[54] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA   LODGE 

him  on  some  pretext,  and  had  him  shot.  With 
a  premonition  of  his  fate  he  had  refused  to  take 
me  with  him.  His  estates  were  confiscated, 
and  I  was  left  with  a  pittance  and  a  broken 
heart. 

"Then  came  the  downfall  of  the  tyrant.  He 
escaped  as  you  have  just  described.  But  the 
many  whose  lives  he  had  ruined,  whose  nearest 
and  dearest  had  suffered  torture  and  death  at 
his  hands,  would  not  let  the  matter  rest.  They 
banded  themselves  into  a  society  which  should 
never  be  dissolved  until  the  work  was  done. 
It  was  my  part  after  we  had  discovered  in  the 
transformed  Henderson  the  fallen  despot,  to 
attach  myself  to  his  household  and  keep  the 
others  in  touch  with  his  movements.  This  I 
was  able  to  do  by  securing  the  position  of 
governess  in  his  family.  He  little  knew  that 
the  woman  who  faced  him  at  every  meal  was 
the  woman  whose  husband  he  had  hurried  at 
an  hour's  notice  into  eternity.  I  smiled  on  him, 
did  my  duty  to  his  children,  and  bided  my  time. 
An  attempt  was  made  in  Paris,  and  failed.  We 
zigzagged  swiftly  here  and  there  over  Europe, 
to  throw  off  the  pursuers,  and  finally  returned 
to  this  house,  which  he  had  taken  upon  his  first 
arrival  in  England. 

"But  here  also  the  ministers  of  justice  were 
waiting.  Knowing  that  he  would  return  there, 
Garcia,  who  is  the  son  of  the  former  highest 

[55] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


dignitary  in  San  Pedro,  was  waiting  with  two 
trusty  companions  of  humble  station,  all  three 
fired  with  the  same  reasons  for  revenge.  He 
could  do  little  during  the  day,  for  Murillo  took 
every  precaution,  and  never  went  out  save 
with  his  satellite  Lucas,  or  Lopez  as  he  was 
known  in  the  days  of  his  greatness.  At  night, 
however,  he  slept  alone,  and  the  avenger  might 
find  him.  On  a  certain  evening,  which  had  been 
prearranged,  I  sent  my  friend  final  instructions, 
for  the  man  was  for  ever  on  the  alert,  and  con- 
tinually changed  his  room.  I  was  to  see  that 
the  doors  were  open  and  the  signal  of  a  green  or 
white  light  in  a  window  which  faced  the  drive 
was  to  give  notice  if  all  was  safe,  or  if  the  attempt 
had  better  be  postponed. 

"But  everything  went  wrong  with  us.  In 
some  way  I  had  excited  the  suspicion  of  Lopez, 
the  secretary.  He  crept  up  behind  me,  and 
sprang  upon  me  just  as  I  had  finished  the  note. 
He  and  his  master  dragged  me  to  my  room, 
and  held  judgment  upon  me  as  a  convicted 
traitress.  Then  and  there  they  would  have 
plunged  their  knives  into  me,  could  they  have 
seen  how  to  escape  the  consequence  of  the  deed. 
Finally,  after  much  debate,  they  concluded  that 
my  murder  was  too  dangerous.  But  they  de- 
termined to  get  rid  for  ever  of  Garclr.  They 
had  gagged  me,  and  Murillo  twisted  my  arm 
round  until  I  gave  him  the  address.  I  swear 
[56] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF    WISTERIA   LODGE 

that  he  might  have  twisted  it  off  had  I  under- 
stood what  it  would  mean  to  Garcia.  Lopez 
addressed  the  note  which  I  had  written,  sealed 
it  with  his  sleeve-link,  and  sent  it  by  the  hand 
of  the  servant,  Jose.  How  they  murdered  him 
I  do  not  know,  save  that  it  was  Murillo's  hand 
who  struck  him  down,  for  Lopez  had  remained 
to  guard  me.  I  believe  he  must  have  waiter 
among  the  gorse  bushes  through  which  the  path 
winds  and  struck  him  down  as  he  passed.  At 
first  they  were  of  a  mind  to  let  him  enter  the 
house  and  to  kill  him  as  a  detected  burglar; 
but  they  argued  that  if  they  were  mixed  up  in 
an  inquiry  their  own  identity  would  at  once  be 
publicly  disclosed  and  they  would  be  open  to 
further  attacks.  With  the  death  of  Garcia  the 
pursuit  might  cease,  since  such  a  death  might 
frighten  others  from  the  task. 

"All  would  now  have  been  well  for  them 
had  it  not  been  for  my  knowledge  of  what  they 
had  done.  I  have  no  doubt  that  there  were 
times  when  my  life  hung  in  the  balance.  I  was 
confined  to  my  room,  terrorised  by  the  most 
horrible  threats,  cruelly  ill-used  to  break  my 
spirit — see  this  stab  on  my  shoulder  and  the 
bruises  from  end  to  end  of  my  arms — and  a  gag 
was  thrust  into  my  mouth  on  the  one  occasion 
when  I  tried  to  call  from  the  window.  For 
five  days  this  cruel  imprisonment  continued, 
with  hardly  enough  food  to  hold  body  and  soul 

[57] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


together.  This  afternoon  a  good  lunch  was 
brought  me,  but  the  moment  after  I  took  it  I 
knew  that  I  had  been  drugged.  In  a  sort  of 
dream  I  remember  being  half-led,  half-carried 
to  the  carriage;  in  the  same  state  I  was  con- 
veyed to  the  train.  Only  then,  when  the 
wheels  were  almost  moving  did  I  suddenly 
realise  that  my  liberty  lay  in  my  own  hands. 
I  sprang  out,  they  tried  to  drag  me  back,  and 
had*  it  not  been  for  the  help  of  this  good  man, 
who  led  me  to  the  cab,  I  should  never  have 
broken  away.  Now,  thank  God,  I  am  beyond 
their  power  for  ever." 

We  had  all  listened  intently  to  this  remark- 
able statement.  It  was  Holmes  who  broke  the 
silence. 

"Our  difficulties  are  not  over,"  he  remarked, 
shaking  his  head.  "Our  police  work  ends,  but 
our  legal  work  begins." 

"Exactly,"  said  I.  "A  plausible  lawyer  could 
make  it  out  as  an  act  of  self-defence.  There 
may  be  a  hundred  crimes  in  the  background, 
but  it  is  only  on  this  one  that  they  can  be 
tried." 

"Come,  come,"  said  Baynes,  cheerily;  "I  think 
better  of  the  law  than  that.  Self-defence 
is  one  thing.  To  entice  a  man  in  cold  blood 
with  the  object  of  murdering  him  is  another, 
whatever  danger  you  may  fear  from  him.  No, 
no;  we  shall  all  be  justified  when  we  see  the 
[58] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   WISTERIA   LODGE 

tenants  of  High  Gable  at  the  next  Guildford 

Assizes." 

It  is  a  matter  of  history,  however,  that  a 
little  time  was  still  to  elapse  before  the  Tiger  of 
San  Pedro  should  meet  with  his  deserts.  Wily 
and  bold,  he  and  his  companion  threw  their 
pursuer  off  their  track  by  entering  a  lodging- 
house  in  Edmonton  Street  and  leaving  by  the 
back-gate  into  Curzon  Square.  From  that  day 
they  were  seen  no  more  in  England.  Some  six 
months  afterwards  the  Marquess  of  Montalva 
and  Signor  Rulli,  his  secretary,  were  both  mur- 
dered in  their  rooms  at  the  Hotel  Escurial  at 
Madrid.  The  crime  was  ascribed  to  Nihilism, 
and  the  murderers  were  never  arrested.  Inspec- 
tor Baynes  visited  us  at  Baker  Street  with  a 
printed  description  of  the  dark  face  of  the  sec- 
retary, and  of  the  masterful  features,  the  mag- 
netic black  eyes,  and  the  tufted  brows  of  his 
master.  We  could  not  doubt  that  justice,  if 
belated,  had  come  at  last. 

"A  chaotic  case,  my  dear  Watson,"  said 
Holmes,  over  an  evening  pipe.  "It  will  not 
be  possible  for  you  to  present  it  in  that  compact 
form  which  is  dear  to  your  heart.  It  covers 
two  continents,  concerns  two  groups  of  mys- 
terious persons,  and  is  further  complicated  by 
the  highly  respectable  presence  of  our  friend 
Scott  Eccles,  whose  inclusion  shows  me  that 

[59] 


HIS  LAST  BOW 


the  deceased  Garcia  had  a  scheming  mind  and 
a  well-developed  instinct  of  self-preservation. 
It  is  remarkable  only  for  the  fact  that  amid  a 
perfect  jungle  of  possibilities  we,  with  our 
worthy  collaborator  the  inspector,  have  kept 
our  close  hold  on  the  essentials  and  so  been 
guided  along  the  crooked  and  winding  path. 
Is  there  any  point  which  is  not  quite  clear  to 
you?" 

"The  object  of  the  mulatto  cook's  return?" 
"I  think  that  the  strange  creature  in  the 
kitchen  may  account  for  it.  The  man  was  a 
primitive  savage  from  the  backwoods  of  San 
Pedro,  and  this  was  his  fetish.  When  his  com- 
panion and  he  had  fled  to  some  prearranged 
retreat — already  occupied,  no  doubt  by  a  con- 
federate— the  companion  had  persuaded  him 
to  leave  so  compromising  an  article  of  furniture. 
But  the  mulatto's  heart  was  with  it,  and  he 
was  driven  back  to  it  next  day,  when,  on  re- 
connoitring through  the  window,  he  found 
policeman  Walters  in  possession.  He  waited 
three  days  longer,  and  then  his  piety  or  his  super- 
stition drove  him  to  try  once  more.  Inspec- 
tor Baynes,  who,  with  his  usual  astuteness,  had 
minimised  the  incident  before  me,  had  really 
recognised  its  importance,  and  had  left  a  trap 
into  which  the  creature  walked.  Any  other  point, 
Watson?" 

"The  torn  bird,  the  pail  of  blood,  the  charred 
[60] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF    WISTERIA   LODGE 

bones,  all  the  mystery  of  that  weird  kitchen?" 
Holmes  smiled  as  he  turned  up  an  entry  in 

his  notebook. 

"I  spent  a  morning  in  the  British  Museum 

reading  up  that  and  other  points.     Here  is  a 

quotation  from  Eckermann's  Foodooism  and  the 

Negroid  Religions: 

'  'The  true  Voodoo-worshipper  attempts  noth- 
ing of  importance  without  certain  sacrifices  which 
are  intended  to  propitiate  his  unclean  gods.  In 
extreme  cases  these  rites  take  the  form  of  human 
sacrifices  followed  by  cannibalism.  The  more 
usual  victims  are  a  white  cock,  which  is  plucked 
in  pieces  alive,  or  a  black  goat,  whose  throat  is 
cut  and  body  burned.' 

"So  you  see  our  savage  friend  was  very 
orthodox  in  his  ritual.  It  is  grotesque,  Watson," 
Holmes  added,  as  he  slowly  fastened  his  note- 
book; "but,  as  I  have  had  occasion  to  remark, 
there  is  but  one  step  from  the  grotesque  to  the 
horrible." 


[61] 


II 

THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  CARD- 
BOARD BOX 


IN  choosing  a  few  typical  cases  which  illustrate 
the  remarkable  mental  qualities  of  my  friend, 
Sherlock  Holmes,  I  have  endeavoured,  as  far 
as  possible,  to  select  those  which  presented  the 
minimum  of  sensationalism,  while  offering  a 
fair  field  for  his  talents.  It  is,  however,  un- 
fortunately, impossible  entirely  to  separate  the 
sensational  from  the  criminal,  and  a  chronicler 
is  left  in  the  dilemma  that  he  must  either 
sacrifice  details  which  are  essential  to  his  state- 
ment, and  so  give  a  false  impression  of  the  prob- 
lem, or  he  must  use  matter  which  chance,  and 
not  choice,  has  provided  him  with.  With  this 
short  preface  I  shall  turn  to  my  notes  of  what 
proved  to  be  a  strange,  though  a  peculiarly  ter- 
rible, chain  of  events. 

It  was  a  blazing  hot  day  in  August.    Baker 
Street  was  like  an  oven,  and  the  glare  of  the 
sunlight  upon  the  yellow  brickwork  of  the  house 
[62] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE    CARDBOARD   BOX 

across  the  road  was  painful  to  the  eye.  It  was 
hard  to  believe  that  these  were  the  same  walls 
which  loomed  so  gloomily  through  the  fogs  of 
winter.  Our  blinds  were  half -drawn,  and  Holmes 
lay  curled  upon  the  sofa,  reading  and  re-reading 
a  letter  which  he  had  received  by  the  morning 
post.  For  myself,  my  term  of  service  in  India 
had  trained  me  to  stand  heat  better  than  cold, 
and  a  thermometer  at  90  was  no  hardship.  But 
the  morning  paper  was  uninteresting.  Parlia- 
ment had  risen.  Everybody  was  out  of  town, 
and  I  yearned  for  the  glades  of  the  New  Forest 
or  the  shingle  of  Southsea.  A  depleted  bank 
account  had  caused  me  to  postpone  my  holiday, 
and  as  to  my  companion,  neither  the  country 
nor  the  sea  presented  the  slightest  attraction  to 
him.  He  loved  to  lie  in  the  very  centre  of  five 
millions  of  people,  with  his  filaments  stretching 
out  and  running  through  them,  responsive  to 
every  little  rumour  or  suspicion  of  unsolved 
crime.  Appreciation  of  nature  found  no  place 
among  his  many  gifts,  and  his  only  change  was 
when  he  turned  his  mind  from  the  evil-doer  of 
the  town  to  track  down  his  brother  of  the  country. 

Finding  that  Holmes  was  too  absorbed  for 
conversation  I  had  tossed  aside  the  barren  paper 
and,  leaning  back  in  my  chair,  I  fell  into  a  brown 
study.  Suddenly  my  companion's  voice  broke 
in  upon  my  thoughts. 

"You  are  right,  Watson,"  said  he.  "It  does 

[63] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


seem  a  most  preposterous  way  of  settling  a 
dispute." 

"Most  preposterous!"  I  exclaimed,  and 
then  suddenly  realising  how  he  had  echoed 
the  inmost  thought  of  my  soul,  I  sat  up  in 
my  chair  and  stared  at  him  in  blank  amaze- 
ment. 

"What  is  this,  Holmes?"  I  cried.  "This  is 
beyond  anything  which  I  could  have  imagined." 

He  laughed  heartily  at  my  perplexity. 

"You  remember,"  said  he,  "that  some  little 
time  ago  when  I  read  you  the  passage  in  one  of 
Poe's  sketches  in  which  a  close  reasoner  follows 
the  unspoken  thoughts  of  his  companion,  you 
were  inclined  to  treat  the  matter  as  a  mere 
tour-de-force  of  the  author.  On  my  remarking 
that  I  was  constantly  in  the  habit  of  doing  the 
same  thing  you  expressed  incredulity." 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Perhaps  not  with  your  tongue,  my  dear 
Watson,  but  certainly  with  your  eyebrows.  So 
when  I  saw  you  throw  down  your  paper  and 
enter  upon  a  train  of  thought,  I  was  very  happy 
to  have  the  opportunity  of  reading  it  off,  and 
eventually  of  breaking  into  it,  as  a  proof  that 
I  had  been  in  rapport  with  you." 

But  I  was  still  far  from  satisfied.     "In  the 

example  which  you  read  to  me,"  said  I,  "the 

reasoner  drew  his  conclusions  from  the  actions 

of  the  man  whom  he  observed.  If  I  remember 

[64] 


THE   ADVENTURE    OF   THE    CARDBOARD    BOX 

right,  he  stumbled  over  a  heap  of  stones,  looked 
up  at  the  stars,  and  so  on.  But  I  have  been 
seated  quietly  in  my  chair,  and  what  clues  can 
I  have  given  you?" 

"You  do  yourself  an  injustice.  The  features 
are  given  to  man  as  the  means  by  which  he  shall 
express  his  emotions,  and  yours  are  faithful 
servants." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  read  my  train 
of  thoughts  from  my  features?" 

"Your  features,  and  especially  your  eyes. 
Perhaps  you  cannot  yourself  recall  how  your 
reverie  commenced?" 

"No,  I  cannot." 

"Then  I  will  tell  you.  After  throwing  down 
your  paper,  which  was  the  action  which  drew 
my  attention  to  you,  you  sat  for  half  a  minute 
with  a  vacant  expression.  Then  your  eyes 
fixed  themselves  upon  your  newly-framed  pic- 
ture of  General  Gordon,  and  I  saw  by  the  altera- 
tion in  your  face  that  a  train  of  thought  had 
been  started.  But  it  did  not  lead  very  far. 
Your  eyes  flashed  across  to  the  unframed 
portrait  of  Henry  Ward  Beecher  which  stands 
upon  the  top  of  your  books.  Then  you  glanced 
up  at  the  wall,  and  of  course  your  meaning  was 
obvious.  You  were  thinking  that  if  the  portrait 
were  framed,  it  would  just  cover  that  bare 
space  and  correspond  with  Gordon's  picture 
over  there." 

[65] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"You  have  followed  me  wonderfully!"  I 
exclaimed. 

"So  far  I  could  hardly  have  gone  astray.  But 
now  your  thoughts  went  back  to  Beecher,  and 
you  looked  hard  across  as  if  you  were  studying 
the  character  in  his  features.  Then  your  eyes 
ceased  to  pucker,  but  you  continued  to  look 
across,  and  your  face  was  thoughtful.  You 
were  recalling  the  incidents  of  Beecher 's  career. 
I  was  well  aware  that  you  could  not  do  this 
without  thinking  of  the  mission  which  he  under- 
took on  behalf  of  the  North  at  the  time  of  the 
Civil  War,  for  I  remember  your  expressing  your 
passionate  indignation  at  the  way  in  which  he 
was  received  by  the  more  turbulent  of  our 
people.  You  felt  so  strongly  about  it,  that  I 
knew  you  could  not  think  of  Beecher  without 
thinking  of  that  also.  When  a  moment  later 
I  saw  your  eyes  wander  away  from  the  picture, 
I  suspected  that  your  mind  had  now  turned  to 
the  Civil  War,  and  when  I  observed  that  your 
lips  set,  your  eyes  sparkled,  and  your  hands 
clenched,  I  was  positive  that  you  were  indeed 
thinking  of  the  gallantry  which  was  shown  by 
both  sides  in  that  desperate  struggle.  But  then, 
again,  your  face  grew  sadder;  you  shook  your 
head.  You  were  dwelling  upon  the  sadness 
and  horror  and  useless  waste  of  life.  Your 
hand  stole  towards  your  own  old  wound  and  a 
smile  quivered  on  your  lips,  which  showed  me 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF  THE   CARDBOARD   BOX 

that  the  ridiculous  side  of  this  method  of 
settling  international  questions  had  forced  itself 
upon  your  mind.  At  this  point  I  agreed  with 
you  that  it  was  preposterous,  and  was  glad  to 
find  that  all  my  deductions  had  been  correct." 

"Absolutely!"  said  I.  "And  now  that  you 
have  explained  it,  I  confess  that  I  am  as  amazed 
as  before." 

"It  was  very  superficial,  my  dear  Watson,  I 
assure  you.  I  should  not  have  intruded  it 
upon  your  attention  had  you  not  shown  some 
incredulity  the  other  day.  But  I  have  in  my 
hands  here  a  little  problem  which  may  prove 
to  be  more  difficult  of  solution  than  my  small 
essay  in  thought  reading.  Have  you  observed 
in  the  paper  a  short  paragraph  referring  to  the 
remarkable  contents  of  a  packet  sent  through 
the  post  to  Miss  Gushing,  of  Cross  Street, 
Croydon?" 

"No,  I  saw  nothing." 

"Ah!  then  you  must  have  overlooked  it.  Just 
toss  it  over  to  me.  Here  it  is,  under  the  financial 
column.  Perhaps  you  would  be  good  enough  to 
read  it  aloud." 

I  picked  up  the  paper  which  he  had  thrown 
back  to  me,  and  read  the  paragraph  indicated.  It 
was  headed,  "A  Gruesome  Packet." 

"Miss  Susan  Gushing,  living  at  Cross  Street, 
Croydon,  has  been  made  the  victim  of  what 
must  be  regarded  as  a  peculiarly  revolting 

[67] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


practical  joke,  unless  some  more  sinister  mean- 
ing should  prove  to  be  attached  to  the  incident. 
At  two  o'clock  yesterday  afternoon  a  small 
packet,  wrapped  in  brown  paper,  was  handed  in 
by  the  postman.  A  cardboard  box  was  inside, 
which  was  filled  with  coarse  salt.  On  emptying 
this,  Miss  Gushing  was  horrified  to  find  two 
human  ears,  apparently  quite  freshly  severed. 
The  box  had  been  sent  by  parcel  post  from 
Belfast  upon  the  morning  before.  There  is  no 
indication  as  to  the  sender,  and  the  matter  is  the 
more  mysterious  as  Miss  dishing,  who  is  a 
maiden  lady  of  fifty,  has  led  a  most  retired  life, 
and  has  so  few  acquaintances  or  correspondents 
that  it  is  a  rare  event  for  her  to  receive  anything 
through  the  post.  Some  years  ago,  however, 
when  she  resided  at  Penge,  she  let  apartments 
in  her  house  to  three  young  medical  students, 
whom  she  was  obliged  to  get  rid  of  on  account 
of  their  noisy  and  irregular  habits.  The  police 
are  of  opinion  that  this  outrage  may  have  been 
perpetrated  upon  Miss  Gushing  by  these  youths, 
who  owed  her  a  grudge,  and  who  hoped  to 
frighten  her  by  sending  her  these  relics  of  the 
dissecting-rooms.  Some  probability  is  lent  to 
the  theory  by  the  fact  that  one  of  these  students 
came  from  the  north  of  Ireland,  and,  to  the 
best  of  Miss  Cushing's  belief,  from  Belfast.  In 
the  meantime,  the  matter  is  being  actively  inves- 
tigated, Mr.  Lestrade,  one  of  the  very  smartest 
[68] 


THE  ADVENTURE-  OF  THE   CARDBOARD   BOX 

of  our  detective  officers,  being  in  charge  of  the 
case." 

"So  much  for  the  Daily  Chronicle''  said 
Holmes,  as  I  finished  reading.  "Now  for  our 
friend  Lestrade.  I  had  a  note  from  him  this 
morning,  in  which  he  says:  'I  think  that  this 
case  is  very  much  in  your  line.  We  have  every 
hope  of  clearing  the  matter  up,  but  we  find  a 
little  difficulty  in  getting  anything  to  work 
upon.  We  have,  of  courser  wired  to  the  Belfast 
post-office,  but  a  large  number  of  parcels  were 
handed  in  upon  that  day,  and  they  have  no 
mearis  of  identifying  this  particular  one,  or  of 
remembering  the  sender.  The  box  is  a  half- 
pound  box  of  honeydew  tobacco,  and  does  not 
help  us  in  any  way.  The  medical  student  theory 
still  appears  to  me  to  be  the  most  feasible,  but 
if  you  should  have  a  few  hours  to  spare,  I  should 
be  very  happy  to  see  you  out  here.  I  shall  be 
either  at  the  house  or  in  the  police-station  all 
day.'  What  say  you,  Watson?  Can  you  rise 
superior  to  the  heat,  and  run  down  to  Croydon 
with  me  on  the  off  chance  of  a  case  for  your 
annals?" 

"I  was  longing  for  something  to  do." 

"You  shall  have  it  then.  Ring  for  our  boots, 
and  tell  them  to  order  a  cab.  I'll  be  back  in  a 
moment,  when  I  have  changed  my  dressing-gown 
and  filled  my  cigar-case." 

A  shower  of  rain  fell  while  we  were  in  the 

[69] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


train,  and  the  heat  was  far  less  oppressive  in 
Croydon  than  in  town.  Holmes  had  sent  on 
a  wire,  so  that  Lestrade,  as  wiry,  as  dapper,  and 
as  ferret-like  as  ever,  was  waiting  for  us  at  the 
station.  A  walk  of  five  minutes  took  us  to 
Cross  Street,  where  Miss  Gushing  resided. 

It  was  a  very  long  street  of  two-story  brick 
houses,  neat  and  prim,  with  whitened  stone  steps 
and  little  groups  of  aproned  women  gossiping  at 
the  doors.  Half-way  down,  Lestrade  stopped 
and  tapped  at  a  door,  which  was  opened  by  a 
small  servant  girl.  Miss  Gushing  was  sitting 
in  the  front  room,  into  which  we  were  ushered. 
She  was  a  placid-faced  woman,  with  large,  gentle 
eyes,  and  grizzled  hair  curving  down  over  her 
temples  on  each  side.  A  worked  antimacassar 
lay  upon  her  lap  and  a  basket  of  coloured  silks 
stood  upon  a  stool  beside  her. 

"They  are  in  the  outhouse,  those  dreadful 
things,"  said  she,  as  Lestrade  entered.  "I  wish 
that  you  would  take  them  away  altogether." 

"So  I  shall,  Miss  Gushing.  I  only  kept  them 
here  until  my  friend,  Mr.  Holmes,  should  have 
seen  them  in  your  presence." 

"Why  in  my  presence,  sir?" 

"In  case  he  wished  to  ask  any  questions." 

"What  is  the  use  of  asking  me  questions,  when 
I  tell  you  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  it?" 

"Quite  so,  madam,"  said  Holmes,  in  his  sooth- 
ing way.  "I  have  no  doubt  that  you  have  been 
[70] 


THE  ADVENTURE   OF  THE   CARDBOARD   BOX 

annoyed  more  than  enough  already  over  this 
business." 

"Indeed,  I  have,  sir.  I  am  a  quiet  woman 
and  live  a  retired  life.  It  is  something  new  for 
me  to  see  my  name  in  the  papers  and  to  find 
the  police  in  my  house.  I  won't  have  those 
things  in  here,  Mr.  Lestrade.  If  you  wish  to 
see  them  you  must  go  to  the  outhouse." 

It  was  a  small  shed  in  the  narrow  garden 
which  ran  behind  the  house.  Lestrade  went 
in  and  brought  out  a  yellow  cardboard  box, 
with  a  piece  of  brown  paper  and  some  string. 
There  was  a  bench  at  the  end  of  the  path,  and 
we  all  sat  down  while  Holmes  examined,  one 
by  one,  the  articles  which  Lestrade  had  handed 
to  him. 

"The  string  is  exceedingly  interesting,"  he 
remarked,  holding  it  up  to  the  light  and  sniffing 
at  it.  "What  do  you  make  of  this  string, 
Lestrade?" 

"It  has  been  tarred." 

"Precisely.  It  is  a  piece  of  tarred  twine. 
You  have,  also,  no  doubt,  remarked  that  Miss 
Gushing  has  cut  the  cord  with  a  scissors,  as 
can  be  seen  by  the  double  fray  on  each  side. 
This  is  of  importance." 

"I  cannot  see  the  importance,"  said  Le- 
strade. 

"The  importance  lies  in  the  fact  that  the 

[71] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


knot  is  left  intact,  and  that  this  knot  is  of  a 
peculiar  character." 

"It  is  very  neatly  tied.  I  had  already  made 
a  note  to  that  effect,"  said  Lestrade,  com- 
placently. 

"So  much  for  the  string,  then,"  said  Holmes, 
smiling,  "now  for  the  box  wrapper.  Brown 
paper,  with  a  distinct  smell  of  coffee.  What, 
did  not  observe  it?  I  think  there  can  be  no 
doubt  of  it.  Address  printed  in  rather  strag- 
gling characters :  'Miss  S.  Gushing,  Cross  Street, 
Croydon.'  Done  with  a  broad-pointed  pen, 
probably  a  J,  and  with  very  inferior  ink.  The 
word  Croydon  has  been  originally  spelt  with  an 
i,  which  has  been  changed  to  y.  The  parcel  was 
directed  then  by  a  man — the  printing  is  dis- 
tinctly masculine — of  limited  education  and  un- 
acquainted with  the  town  of  Croydon.  So  far, 
so  good!  The  box  is  a  yellow,  half-pound 
honeydew  box,  with  nothing  distinctive  save 
two  thumb  marks  at  the  left  bottom  corner.  It 
is  filled  with  rough  salt  of  the  quality  used  for 
preserving  hides  and  other  of  the  coarser  com- 
mercial purposes.  And  embedded  in  it  are  these 
very  singular  enclosures." 

He  took  out  the  two  ears  as  he  spoke,  and 
laying  a  board  across  his  knee,  he  examined 
them  minutely,  while  Lestrade  and  I,  bending 
forward  on  each  side  of  him,  glanced  alternately 
at  these  dreadful  relics  and  at  the  thoughtful, 
[72] 


THE   ADVENTURE    OF   THE    CARDBOARD    BOX 

eager  face  of  our  companion.  Finally  he  re- 
turned them  to  the  box  once  more,  and  sat  for 
a  while  in  deep  meditation. 

"You  have  observed,  of  course,"  said  he  at 
last,  "that  the  ears  are  not  a  pair." 

"Yes,  I  have  noticed  that.  But  if  this  were 
the  practical  joke  of  some  students  from  the 
dissecting-rooms,  it  would  be  as  easy  for  them 
to  send  two  odd  ears  as  a  pair." 

"Precisely.    But  this  is  not  a  practical  joke." 

"You  are  sure  of  it?" 

"The  presumption  is  strongly  against  it. 
Bodies  in  the  dissecting-rooms  are  injected  with 
preservative  fluid.  These  ears  bear  no  signs 
of  this.  They  are  fresh  too.  They  have  been 
cut  off  with  a  blunt  instrument,  which  would 
hardly  happen  if  a  student  had  done  it.  Again, 
carbolic  or  rectified  spirits  would  be  the  preserva- 
tives which  would  suggest  themselves  to  the  medi- 
cal mind,  certainly  not  rough  salt.  I  repeat  that 
there  is  no  practical  joke  here,  but  that  we  are 
investigating  a  serious  crime." 

A  vague  thrill  ran  through  me  as  I  listened  to 
my  companion's  words  and  saw  the  stern  gravity 
which  had  hardened  his  features.  This  brutal 
preliminary  seemed  to  shadow  forth  some  strange 
and  inexplicable  horror  in  the  background.  Le- 
strade,  however,  shook  his  head  like  a  man  who 
is  only  half  convinced. 

"There  are  objections  to  the  joke  theory,  no 

[73] 


HIS  LAST   BOW 


doubt,"  said  he;  "but  there  are  much  stonger 
reasons  against  the  other.  We  know  that  this 
woman  has  led  a  most  quiet  and  respectable  life 
at  Penge  and  here  for  the  last  twenty  years. 
She  has  hardly  been  away  from  her  home  for  a 
day  during  that  time.  Why  on  earth,  then, 
should  any  criminal  send  her  the  proofs  of  his 
guilt,  especially  as,  unless  she  is  a  most  consum- 
mate actress,  she  understands  quite  as  little  of 
the  matter  as  we  do?" 

"That  is  the  problem  which  we  have  to  solve," 
Holmes  answered,  "and  for  my  part  I  shall  set 
about  it  by  presuming  that  my  reasoning  is  cor- 
rect, and  that  a  double  murder  has  been  com- 
mitted. One  of  these  ears  is  a  woman's,  small, 
finely  formed,  and  pierced  for  an  earring.  The 
other  is  a  man's,  sun-burned,  discoloured,  and 
also  pierced  for  an  earring.  These  two  people 
are  presumably  dead,  or  we  should  have  heard 
their  story  before  now.  To-day  is  Friday.  The 
packet  was  posted  on  Thursday  morning.  The 
tragedy  then,  occurred  on  Wednesday  or  Tues- 
day, or  earlier.  If  the  two  people  were  mur- 
dered, who  but  their  murderer  would  have  sent 
this  sign  of  his  work  to  Miss  Gushing?  We  may 
take  it  that  the  sender  of  the  packet  is  the  man 
whom  we  want.  But  he  must  have  some  strong 
reason  for  sending  Miss  Gushing  this  packet. 
What  reason  then?  It  must  have  been  to  tell 
her  that  the  deed  was  done;  or  to  pain  her,  per- 
[74] 


THE  ADVENTURE   OF  THE   CARDBOARD   BOX 

haps.  But  in  that  case  she  knows  who  it  is. 
Does  she  know?  I  doubt  it.  If  she  knew,  why 
should  she  call  the  police  in?  She  might  have 
buried  the  ears,  and  no  one  would  have  been  the 
wiser.  That  is  what  she  would  have  done  if  she 
had  wished  to  shield  the  criminal.  But  if  she 
does  not  wish  to  shield  him  she  would  give  his 
name.  There  is  a  tangle  here  which  needs 
straightening  out."  He  had  been  talking  in  a 
high,  quick  voice,  staring  blankly  up  over  the 
garden  fence,  but  now  he  sprang  briskly  to  his 
feet  and  walked  towards  the  house. 

"I  have  a  few  questions  to  ask  Miss  Gushing," 
said  he. 

"In  that  case  I  may  leave  you  here,"  said  Le- 
strade,  "for  I  have  another  small  business  on 
hand.  I  think  that  I  have  nothing  further  to 
learn  from  Miss  Gushing.  -You  will  find  me  at 
the  police-station." 

"We  shall  look  in  on  our  way  to  the  train," 
answered  Holmes.  A  moment  later  he  and  I 
were  back  in  the  front  room,  where  the  impas- 
sive lady  was  still  quietly  working  away  at  her 
antimacassar.  She  put  it  down  on  her  lap  as  we 
entered,  and  looked  at  us  with  her  frank,  search- 
ing blue  eyes. 

"I  am  convinced,  sir,"  she  said,  "that  this  mat- 
ter is  a  mistake,  and  that  the  parcel  was  never 
meant  for  me  at  all.  I  have  said  this  several 
times  to  the  gentleman  from  Scotland  Yard,  but 

[75] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


he  simply  laughs  at  me.  I  have  not  an  enemy  in 
the  world,  as  far  as  I  know,  so  why  should  any- 
one play  me  such  a  trick?" 

"I  am  coming  to  be  of  the  same  opinion,  Miss 
Gushing,"  said  Holmes,  taking  a  seat  beside  her. 
"I  think  that  it  is  more  than  probable  .  .  ."  he 
paused,  and  I  was  surprised,  on  glancing  round 
to  see  that  he  was  staring  with  singular  intent- 
ness  at  the  lady's  profile.  Surprise  and  satisfac- 
tion were  both  for  an  instant  to  be  read  upon  his 
eager  face,  though  when  she  glanced  round  to 
find  out  the  cause  of  his  silence  he  had  become 
as  demure  as  ever.  I  stared  hard  myself  at  her 
flat,  grizzled  hair,  her  trim  cap,  her  little  gilt  ear- 
rings, her  placid  features ;  but  I  could  see  nothing 
which  could  account  for  my  companion's  evident 
excitement. 

"There  were  one  or  two  questions " 

"Oh,  I  am  weary  of  questions!"  cried  Miss 
Gushing,  impatiently. 

"You  have  two  sisters,  I  believe." 

"How  could  you  know  that?" 

"I  observed  the  very  instant  that  I  entered 
the  room  that  you  have  a  portrait  group  of  three 
ladies  upon  the  mantelpiece,  one  of  whom  is  un- 
doubtedly yourself,  while  the  others  are  so  ex- 
ceedingly like  you  that  there  could  be  no  doubt 
of  the  relationship." 

"Yes,  you  are  quite  right.     Those  are  my  sis- 
ters, Sarah  and  Mary." 
[76] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE    CARDBOARD   BOX 

"And  here  at  my  elbow  is  another  portrait, 
taken  at  Liverpool,  of  your  younger  sister,  in  the 
company  of  a  man  who  appears  to  be  a  steward 
by  his  uniform.  I  observe  that  she  was  unmar- 
ried at  the  time.'* 

"You  are  very  quick  at  observing." 

"That  is  my  trade." 

"Well,  you  are  quite  right.  But  she  was  mar- 
ried to  Mr.  Browner  a  few  days  afterwards. 
He  was  on  the  South  American  line  when  that 
was  taken,  but  he  was  so  fond  of  her  that  he 
couldn't  abide  to  leave  her  for  so  long,  and  he 
got  into  the  Liverpool  and  London  boats." 

"Ah,  the  Conqueror,  perhaps?" 

"No,  the  May  Day,  when  last  I  heard.  Jim 
came  down  here  to  see  me  once.  That  was  be- 
fore he  broke  the  pledge;  but  afterwards  he 
would  always  take  drink  when  he  was  ashore, 
and  a  little  drink  would  send  him  stark,  staring 
mad.  Ah!  it  was  a  bad  day  that  ever  he  took 
a  glass  in  his  hand  again.  First  he  dropped 
me,  then  he  quarrelled  with  Sarah,  and  now  that 
Mary  has  stopped  writing  we  don't  know  how 
things  are  going  with  them." 

It  was  evident  that  Miss  Gushing  had  come 
upon  a  subject  on  which  she  felt  very  deeply. 
Like  most  people  who  lead  a  lonely  life,  she  wass 
shy  at  first,  but  ended  by  becoming  extremely 
communicative.  She  told  us  many  details  about 
her  brother-in-law  the  steward,  and  then  wan- 

[77] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


dering  off  on  to  the  subject  of  her  former  lodg- 
ers, the  medical  students,  she  gave  us  a  long  ac- 
count of  their  delinquencies,  with  their  names 
and  those  of  their  hospitals.  Holmes  listened 
attentively  to  everything,  throwing  in  a  question 
from  time  to  time. 

"About  your  second  sister,  Sarah,"  said  he. 
"I  wonder  since  you  are  both  maiden  ladies,  that 
you  do  not  keep  house  together." 

"Ah!  you  don't  know  Sarah's  temper,  or  you 
would  wonder  no  more.  I  tried  it  when  I  came 
to  Croydon,  and  we  kept  on  until  about  two 
months  ago,  when  we  had  to  part.  I  don't  want 
to  say  a  word  against  my  own  sister,  but  she  was 
always  meddlesome  and  hard  to  please,  was 
Sarah." 

"You  say  that  she  quarrelled  with  your  Liver- 
pool relations." 

"Yes,  and  they  were  the  best  of  friends  at  one 
time.  Why,  she  went  up  there  to  live  in  order  to 
be  near  them.  And  now  she  has  no  word  hard 
enough  for  Jim  Browner.  The  last  six  months 
that  she  was  here  she  would  speak  of  nothing  but 
his  drinking  and  his  ways.  He  had  caught  her 
meddling,  I  suspect,  and  given  her  a  bit  of  his 
mind,  and  that  was  the  start  of  it." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Gushing,"  said  Holmes, 

rising  and  bowing.     "Your  sister  Sarah  lives,  I 

think  you   said,    at  New   Street,   Wellington? 

Good-bye,  and  I  am  very  sorry  that  you  should 

[78] 


THE  ADVENTURE   OF  THE   CARDBOARD   BOX 

have  been  troubled  over  a  case  with  which,  as 
you  say,  you  have  nothing  whatever  to  do." 

There  was  a  cab  passing  as  we  came  out,  and 
Holmes  hailed  it. 

"How  far  to  Wallington?"  he  asked. 

"Only  about  a  mile,  sir." 

"Very  good.  Jump  in,  Watson.  We  must 
strike  while  the  iron  is  hot.  Simple  as  the  case 
is,  there  have  been  one  or  two  very  instructive 
details  in  connection  with  it.  Just  pull  up  at  a 
telegraph  office  as  you  pass,  cabby." 

Holmes  sent  off  a  short  wire,  and  for  the  rest 
of  the  drive  lay  back  in  the  cab  with  his  hat 
tilted  over  his  nose  to  keep  the  sun  from  his  face. 
Our  driver  pulled  up  at  a  house  which  was  not 
unlike  the  one  which  we  had  just  quitted.  My 
companion  ordered  him  to  wait,  and  had  his 
hand  upon  the  knocker,  when  the  door  opened 
and  a  grave  young  gentleman  in  black,  with  a 
very  shiny  hat,  appeared  on  the  step. 

"Is  Miss  Gushing  at  home?"  asked  Holmes. 

"Miss  Sarah  Gushing  is  extremely  ill,"  said 
he.  "She  has  been  suffering  since  yesterday 
from  brain  symptoms  of  great  severity.  As  her 
medical  adviser,  I  cannot  possibly  take  the  re- 
sponsibility of  allowng  anyone  to  see  her.  I 
should  recommend  you  to  call  again  in  ten  days." 
He  drew  on  his  gloves,  closed  the  door,  and 
marched  off  down  the  street. 

[79] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"Well,  if  we  can't,  we  can't,"  said  Holmes, 
cheerfully. 

"Perhaps  she  could  not,  or  would  not  have  told 
you  much." 

"I  did  not  wish  her  to  tell  me  anything.  I 
only  wanted  to  look  at  her.  However,  I  think 
that  I  have  got  all  that  I  want.  Drive  us  to 
some  decent  hotel,  cabby,  where  we  may  have 
some  lunch,  and  afterwards  we  shall  drop  down 
upon  friend  Lestrade  at  the  police-station." 

We  had  a  pleasant  little  meal  together,  during 
which  Holmes  would  talk  about  nothing  but  vio- 
lins, narrating  with  great  exultation  how  he  had 
purchased  his  own  Stradivarius,  which  was  worth 
at  least  five  hundred  guineas,  at  a  Jew  broker's 
in  Tottenham  Court  Road  for  fifty-five  shillings. 
This  led  him  to  Paganini,  and  we  sat  for  an  hour 
over  a  bottle  of  claret  while  he  told  me  anecdote 
after  anecdote  of  that  extraordinary  man.  The 
afternoon  was  far  advanced  and  the  hot  glare  had 
softened  into  a  mellow  glow  before  we  found  our- 
selves at  the  police-station.  Lestrade  was  wait- 
ing for  us  at  the  door. 

"A  telegram  for  you,  Mr.  Holmes,"  said  he. 

"Ha!  It  is  the  answer!"  He  tore  it  open, 
glanced  his  eyes  over  it,  and  crumpled  it  into 
his  pocket;  "That's  all  right,"  said  he. 

"Have  you  found  out  anything?" 

"I  have  found  out  everything!" 
[80] 


THE   ADVENTURE    OF   THE    CARDBOARD    BOX 

"What!"  Lestrade  stared  at  him  in  amaze- 
ment. "You  are  joking." 

"I  was  never  more  serious  in  my  life.  A 
shocking  crime  has  been  committed,  and  I  think 
I  have  now  laid  bare  every  detail  of  it." 

"And  the  criminal?" 

Holmes  scribbled  a  few  words  upon  the  back 
of  one  of  his  visiting  cards  and  threw  it  over  to 
Lestrade. 

"That  is  the  name,"  he  said.  "You  cannot  ef- 
fect an  arrest  until  to-morrow  night  at  the  earli- 
est. I  should  prefer  that  you  do  not  mention 
my  name  at  all  in  connection  with  the  case,  as  I 
choose  to  be  only  associated  with  those  crimes 
which  present  some  difficulty  in  their  solution. 
Come  on,  Watson."  We  strode  off  together  to 
the  station,  leaving  Lestrade  still  staring  with  a 
delighted  face  at  the  card  which  Holmes  had 
thrown  him. 

"The  case,"  said  Sherlock  Holmes,  as  we 
chatted  over  our  cigars  that  night  in  our  rooms 
at  Baker  Street,  "is  one  where,  as  in  the  investiga- 
tions which  you  have  chronicled  under  the  names 
of  the  'Study  in  Scarlet'  and  of  the  'Sign  of 
Four/  we  have  been  compelled  to  reason  back- 
ward from  effects  to  causes.  I  have  written  to 
Lestrade  asking  him  to  supply  us  with  the  details 
which  are  now  wanting,  and  which  he  will  only 
get  after  he  has  secured  his  man.  That  he  may 

[81] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


be  safely  trusted  to  do,  for  although  he  is  abso- 
lutely devoid  of  reason,  he  is  as  tenacious  as  a 
bull-dog  when  he  once  understands  what  he  has 
to  do,  and  indeed,  it  is  just  this  tenacity  which 
has  brought  him  to  the  top  at  Scotland  Yard." 

"Your  case  is  not  complete,  then?"  I  asked. 

"It  is  fairly  complete  in  essentials.  We 
know  who  the  author  of  the  revolting  business 
is,  although  one  of  the  victims  still  escapes  us. 
Of  course,  you  have  formed  your  own  conclu- 
sions." 

"I  presume  that  this  Jim  Browner,  the  steward 
of  a  Liverpool  boat,  is  the  man  whom  you  sus- 
pect?" 

"Oh !  it  is  more  than  a  suspicion." 

"And  yet  I  cannot  see  anything  save  very 
vague  indications." 

"On  the  contrary,  to  my  mind  nothing  could 
be  more  clear.  Let  me  run  over  the  principal 
steps.  We  approached  the  case,  you  remember, 
with  an  absolutely  blank  mind,  which  is  always 
an  advantage.  We  had  formed  no  theories.  We 
were  simply  there  to  observe  and  to  draw  infer- 
ences from  our  observations.  What  did  we  see 
first?  A  very  placid  and  respectable  lady,  who 
seemed  quite  innocent  of  any  secret,  and  a  por- 
trait which  showed  me  that  she  had  two  younger 
sisters.  It  instantly  flashed  across  my  mind  that 
the  box  might  have  been  meant  for  one  of  these. 
I  set  the  idea  aside  as  one  which  could  be  dis- 
[82] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE    CARDBOARD    BOX 

proved  or  confirmed  at  our  leisure.  Then  we 
went  to  the  garden,  as  you  remember,  and  we 
saw  the  very  singular  contents  of  the  little  yel- 
low box. 

"The  string  was  of  the  quality  which  is  used 
by  sail-makers  aboard  ship,  and  at  once  a  whiff 
of  the  sea  was  perceptible  in  our  investigation. 
When  I  observed  that  the  knot  was  one  which 
is  popular  with  sailors,  that  the  parcel  had  been 
posted  at  a  port,  and  that  the  male  ear  was 
pierced  for  an  earring  which  is  so  much  more 
common  among  sailors  than  landsmen,  I  was 
quite  certain  that  all  the  actors  in  the  tragedy 
were  to  be  found  among  our  seafaring  classes. 

"When  I  came  to  examine  the  address  of  the 
packet  I  observed  that  it  was  to  Miss  S.  Gushing. 
Now,  the  oldest  sister  would,  of  course,  be  Miss 
Gushing,  and  although  her  initial  was  'S'  it  might 
belong  to  one  of  the  others  as  well.  In  that  case 
we  should  have  to  commence  our  investigation 
from  a  fresh  basis  altogether.  I  therefore  went 
in  to  the  house  with  the  intention  of  clearing  up 
this  point.  I  was  about  to  assure  Miss  Gushing 
that  I  was  convinced  that  a  mistake  had  been 
made,  when  you  may  remember  that  I  came  sud- 
denly to  a  stop.  The  fact  was  that  I  had  just 
seen  something  which  filled  me  with  surprise,  and 
at  the  same  time  narrowed  the  field  of  our  in- 
quiry immensely. 

"As  a  medical  man,  you  are  aware,  Watson, 

[83] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


that  there  is  no  part  of  the  body  which  varies 
so  much  as  the  human  ear.  Each  ear  is  as  a 
rule  quite  distinctive,  and  differs  from  all  other 
ones.  In  last  year's  Anthropological  Journal 
you  will  find  two  short  monographs  from  my  pen 
upon  the  subject.  I  had,  therefore,  examined 
the  ears  in  the  box  with  the  eyes  of  an  expert,  and 
had  carefully  noted  their  anatomical  peculiarities. 
Imagine  my  surprise  then,  when,  on  looking  at 
Miss  Gushing,  I  perceived  that  her  ear  corre- 
sponded exactly  with  the  female  ear  which  I  had 
just  inspected.  The  matter  was  entirely  beyond 
coincidence.  There  was  the  same  shortening  of 
the  pinna,  the  same  broad  curve  of  the  upper 
lobe,  the  same  convolution  of  the  inner  cartilage. 
In  all  essentials  it  was  the  same  ear. 

"Of  course,  I  at  once  saw  the  enormous  impor- 
tance of  the  observation.  It  was  evident  that  the 
victim  was  a  blood  relation,  and  probably  a  very 
close  one.  I  began  to  talk  to  her  about  her  fam- 
ily, and  you  remember  that  she  at  once  gave  us 
some  exceedingly  valuable  details. 

"In  the  first  place,  her  sister's  name  was  Sarah, 
and  her  address  had,  until  recently,  been  the 
same,  so  that  it  was  quite  obvious  how  the  mis- 
take had  occurred,  and  for  whom  the  packet  was 
meant.  Then  we  heard  of  this  steward,  married 
to  the  third  sister,  and  learned  that  he  had  at  one 
time  been  so  intimate  with  Miss  Sarah  that  she 
had  actually  gone  up  to  Liverpool  to  be  near 
[84] 


THE   ADVENTURE    OF   THE    CARDBOARD    BOX 

the  Browners,  but  a  quarrel  had  afterwards  di- 
vided them.  This  quarrel  had  put  a  stop  to  all 
communications  for  some  months,  so  that  if 
Browner  had  occasion  to  address  a  packet  to 
Miss  Sarah,  he  would  undoubtedly  have  done  so 
to  her  old  address. 

"And  now  the  matter  had  begun  to  straighten 
itself  out  wonderfully.  We  had  learned  of  the 
existence  of  this  steward,  an  impulsive  man,  of 
strong  passions — you  remember  that  he  threw  up 
what  must  have  been  a  very  superior  berth,  in 
order  to  be  nearer  to  his  wife — subject,  too,  to  oc- 
casional fits  of  hard  drinking.  We  had  reason  to 
believe  that  his  wife  had  been  murdered,  and  that 
a  man— presumably  a  seafaring  man — had  been 
murdered  at  the  same  time.  Jealousy,  of  course, 
at  once  suggests  itself  as  the  motive  for  the  crime. 
And  why  should  these  proofs  of  the  deed  be  sent 
to  Miss  Sarah  Gushing?  Probably  because  dur- 
ing her  residence  in  Liverpool  she  had  some  hand 
in  bringing  about  the  events  which  led  to  the 
tragedy.  You  will  observe  that  this  line  of  boats 
calls  at  Belfast,  Dublin,  and  Waterford;  so  that, 
presuming  that  Browner  had  committed  the  deed, 
and  had  embarked  at  once  upon  his  steamer,  the 
May  Day,  Belfast  would  be  the  first  place  at 
which  he  could  post  his  terrible  packet. 

"A  second  solution  was  at  this  stage  obviously 
possible,  and  although  I  thought  it  exceedingly 
unlikely,  I  was  determined  to  elucidate  it  before 

[85] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


going  further.  An  unsuccessful  lover  might 
have  killed  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browner,  and  the  male 
ear  might  have  belonged  to  the  husband.  There 
were  many  grave  objections  to  this  theory,  but 
it  was  conceivable.  I  therefore  sent  off  a  tele- 
gram to  my  friend  Algar,  of  the  Liverpool  force, 
and  asked  him  to  find  out  if  Mrs.  Browner  were 
at  home,  and  if  Browner  had  departed  in  the 
May  Day.  Then  we  went  on  to  Wallington  to 
visit  Miss  Sarah. 

"I  was  curious,  in  the  first  place,  to  see  how 
far  the  family  ear  had  been  reproduced  in  her. 
Then,  of  course,  she  might  give  us  very  impor- 
tant information,  but  I  was  not  sanguine  that 
she  would.  She  must  have  heard  of  the  business 
the  day  before,  since  all  Croydon  was  ringing 
with  it,  and  she  alone  could  have  understood  for 
whom  the  packet  was  meant.  If  she  had  been 
willing  to  help  justice  she  would  probably  have 
communicated  with  the  police  already.  How- 
ever, it  was  clearly  our  duty  to  see  her,  so  we 
went.  We  found  that  the  news  of  the  arrival  of 
the  packet — for  her  illness  dated  from  that  time 
— had  such  an  effect  upon  her  as  to  bring  on 
brain  fever.  It  was  clearer  than  ever  that  she 
understood  its  full  significance,  but  equally  clear 
that  we  should  have  to  wait  some  time  for  any 
assistance  from  her. 

"However,  we  were  really  independent  of  her 
help.  Our  answers  were  waiting  for  us  at  the 
[86] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF  THE   CARDBOARD   BOX 

police-station,  where  I  had  directed  Algar  to  send 
them.  Nothing  could  be  more  conclusive.  Mrs. 
Browner's  house  had  been  closed  for  more  than 
three  days,  and  the  neighbours  were  of  opinion 
that  she  had  gone  south  to  see  her  relatives.  It 
had  been  ascertained  at  the  shipping  offices  that 
Browner  had  left  aboard  of  the  May  Day,  and 
I  calculate  that  she  is  due  in  the  Thames  to-mor- 
row night.  When  he  arrives  he  will  be  met  by 
the  obtuse  but  resolute  Lestrade,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  that  we  shall  have  all  our  details 
filled  in." 

Sherlock  Holmes  was  not  disappointed  in  his 
expectations.  Two  days  later  he  received  a 
bulky  envelope,  which  contained  a  short  note 
from  the  detective,  and  a  type-written  document, 
which  covered  several  pages  of  foolscap. 

"Lestrade  has  got  him  all  right,"  said  Holmes, 
glancing  up  at  me.  "Perhaps  it  would  interest 
you  to  hear  what  he  says." 

"MY  DEAR  MR.  HOLMES, — In  accordance 
with  the  scheme  which  we  had  formed  in  order 
to  test  our  theories" — "the  'we'  is  rather  fine, 
Watson,  is  it  not?" — "I  went  down  to  the  Albert 
Dock  yesterday  at  6  p.m.,  and  boarded  the  s.s. 
May  Day,  belonging  to  the  Liverpool,  Dublin, 
and  London  Steam  Packet  Company.  On  in- 
quiry, I  found  that  there  was  a  steward  on  board 
of  the  name  of  James  Browner  and  that  he  had 

[87] 


HIS  LAST  BOW 


acted  during  the  voyage  in  such  an  extraordinary 
manner  that  the  captain  had  been  compelled  to 
relieve  him  of  his  duties.  On  descending  to  his 
berth,  I  found  him  seated  upon  a  chest  with  his 
head  sunk  upon  his  hands,  rocking  himself  to 
and  fro.  He  is  a  big,  powerful  chap,  clean- 
shaven, and  very  swarthy — something  like  Al- 
dridge,  who  helped  us  in  the  bogus  laundry  af- 
fair. He  jumped  up  when  he  heard  my  busi- 
ness, and  I  had  my  whistle  to  my  lips  to  call  a 
couple  of  river  police,  who  were  round  the  corner, 
but  he  seemed  to  have  no  heart  in  him,  and  he 
held  out  his  hands  quietly  enough  for  the  darbies. 
We  brought  him  along  to  the  cells,  and  his  box 
as  well,  for  we  thought  there  might  be  something 
incriminating;  but,  bar  a  big  sharp  knife,  such 
as  most  sailors  have,  we  got  nothing  for  our 
trouble.  However,  we  find  that  we  shall  want 
no  more  evidence,  for  on  being  brought  before 
the  inspector  at  the  station,  he  asked  leave  to 
make  a  statement,  which  was,  of  course,  taken 
down,  just  as  he  made  it,  by  our  shorthand  man. 
We  had  three  copies  type-written,  one  of  which 
I  inclose.  The  affair  proves,  as  I  always  thought 
it  would,  to  be  an  extremely  simple  one,  but  I 
am  obliged  to  you  for  assisting  me  in  my  investi- 
gation. With  kind  regards,  yours  very  truly. 
— G.  LESTKADE." 

"Hum!     The  investigation  really  was  a  very 
simple  one,"  remarked  Holmes;  "but  I  don't 
think  it  struck  him  in  that  light  when  he  first 
[88] 


THE  ADVENTURE   OF  THE   CARDBOARD   BOX 

called  us  in.  However,  let  us  see  what  Jim 
Browner  has  to  say  for  himself,  This  is  his 
statement,  as  made  before  Inspector  Montgom- 
ery at  the  Shadwell  Police  Station,  and  it  has 
the  advantage  of  being  verbatim." 

"Have  I  anything  to  say?  Yes,  I  have  a  deal 
to  say.  I  have  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  all. 
You  can  hang  me,  or  you  can  leave  me  alone.  I 
don't  care  a  plug  which  you  do.  I  tell  you  I've 
not  shut  an  eye  in  sleep  since  I  did  it,  and  I  don't 
believe  I  ever  will  again  until  I  get  past  all  wak- 
ing. Sometimes  it's  his  face,  but  most  generally 
it's  hers.  I'm  never  without  one  or  the  other  be- 
fore me.  He  looks  frowning  and  black-like,  but 
she  has  a  kind  o'  surprise  upon  her  face.  Aye, 
the  white  lamb,  she  might  well  be  surprised  when 
she  read  death  on  a  face  that  had  seldom  looked 
anything  but  love  upon  her  before. 

"But  it  was  Sarah's  fault,  and  may  the  curse 
of  a  broken  man  put  a  blight  on  her  and  set  the 
blood  rotting  in  her  veins !  It's  not  that  I  want 
to  clear  myself.  I  know  that  I  went  back  to 
drink,  like  the  beast  that  I  was.  But  she  would 
have  forgiven  me;  she  would  have  stuck  as  close 
to  me  as  a  rope  to  a  block  if  that  woman  had 
never  darkened  our  door.  For  Sarah  Gushing 
loved  me — that's  the  root  of  the  business — she 
loved  me,  until  all  her  love  turned  to  poisonous 
hate  when  she  knew  that  I  thought  more  of  my 

[89] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


wife's  foot-mark  in  the  mud  than  I  did  of  her 
whole  body  and  soul. 

"There  were  three  sisters  altogether.  The  old 
one  was  just  a  good  woman,  the  second  was  a 
devil,  and  the  third  was  an  angel.  Sarah  was 
thirty-three,  and  Mary  was  twenty-nine  when  I 
married.  We  were  just  as  happy  as  the  day  was 
long  when  we  set  up  house  together,  and  in  all 
Liverpool  there  was  no  better  woman  than  my 
Mary.  And  then  we  asked  Sarah  up  for  a  week, 
and  the  week  grew  into  a  month,  and  one  thing 
led  to  another,  until  she  was  just  one  of  our- 
selves. 

"I  was  blue  ribbon  at  that  time,  and  we  were 
putting  a  little  money  by,  and  all  was  as  bright 
as  a  new  dollar.  My  God,  whoever  would  have 
thought  that  it  could  have  come  to  this?  Who- 
ever would  have  dreamed  it  ? 

"I  used  to  be  home  for  the  week-ends  very 
often,  and  sometimes  if  the  ship  were  held  back 
for  cargo  I  would  have  a  whole  week  at  a  time, 
and  in  this  way  I  saw  a  deal  of  my  sister-in-law, 
Sarah.  She  was  a  fine  tall  woman,  black  and 
quick  and  fierce,  with  a  proud  way  of  carrying 
her  head,  and  a  glint  from  her  eye  like  a  spark 
from  a  flint.  But  when  little  Mary  was  there 
I  had  never  a  thought  of  her,  and  that  I  swear 
as  I  hope  for  God's  mercy. 

"It  had  seemed  to  me  sometimes  that  she  liked 
to  be  alone  with  me,  or  to  coax  me  out  for  a  walk 
[90] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE    CARDBOARD   BOX 

with  her,  but  I  had  never  thought  anything  of 
that.  But  one  evening  my  eyes  were  opened. 
I  had  come  up  from  the  ship  and  found  my  wife 
out,  but  Sarah  at  home.  'Where's  Mary?'  I 
asked.  'Oh,  she  has  gone  to  pay  some  accounts/ 
I  was  impatient  and  paced  up  and  down  the 
room.  'Can't  you  be  happy  for  five  minutes 
without  Mary,  Jim?'  says  she.  'It's  a  bad  com- 
pliment to  me  that  you  can't  be  contented  with 
my  society  for  so  short  a  time.'  'That's  all  right, 
my  lass,'  said  I,  putting  out  my  hand  towards 
her  in  a  kindly  way,  but  she  had  it  in  both  hers 
in  an  instant,  and  they  burned  as  if  they  were  in 
a  fever.  I  looked  into  her  eyes  and  I  read  it  all 
there.  There  was  no  need  for  her  to  speak,  nor 
for  me  either.  I  frowned  and  drew  my  hand 
away.  Then  she  stood  by  my  side  in  silence  for 
a  bit,  and  then  put  up  her  hand  and  patted  me 
on  the  shoulder.  'Steady  old  Jim!'  said  she; 
and  with  a  kind  o'  mocking  laugh,  she  ran  out 
of  the  room. 

"Well,  from  that  time  Sarah  hated  me  with  her 
whole  heart  and  soul,  and  she  is  a  woman  who 
can  hate,  too.  I  was  a  fool  to  let  her  go  on  bid- 
ing with  us — a  besotted  fool — but  I  never  said 
a  word  to  Mary,  for  I  knew  it  would  grieve  her. 
Things  went  on  much  as  before,  but  after  a  time 
I  began  to  find  that  there  was  a  bit  of  a  change 
in  Mary  herself.  She  had  always  been  so  trust- 
ing and  so  innocent,  but  now  she  became  queer 

[91] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


and  suspicious,  wanting  to  know  where  I  had 
been  and  what  I  had  been  doing,  and  whom  my 
letters  were  from,  and  what  I  had  in  my  pockets, 
and  a  thousand  such  follies.  Day  by  day  she 
grew  queerer  and  more  irritable,  and  we  had 
causeless  rows  about  nothing.  I  was  fairly  puz- 
zled by  it  all.  Sarah  avoided  me  now,  but  she  and 
Mary  were  just  inseparable.  I  can  see  now  how 
she  was  plotting  and  scheming  and  poisoning  my 
wife's  mind  against  me,  but  I  was  such  a  blind 
beetle  that  I  could  not  understand  it  at  the  time. 
Then  I  broke  my  blue  ribbon  and  began  to  drink 
again,  but  I  think  I  should  not  have  done  it  if 
Mary  had  been  the  same  as  ever.  She  had  some 
reason  to  be  disgusted  with  me  now,  and  the  gap 
between  us  began  to  be  wider  and  wider.  And 
then  this  Alec  Fairbairn  chipped  in,  and  things 
became  a  thousand  times  blacker. 

"It  was  to  see  Sarah  that  he  came  to  my  house 
first,  but  soon  it  was  to  see  us,  for  he  was  a  man 
with  winning  ways,  and  he  made  friends  wher- 
ever he  went.  He  was  a  dashing,  swaggering 
chap,  smart  and  curled,  who  had  seen  half  the 
world,  and  could  talk  of  what  he  had  seen.  He 
was  good  company,  I  won't  deny  it,  and  he  had 
wonderful  polite  ways  with  him  for  a  sailor  man, 
so  that  I  think  there  must  have  been  a  time  when 
he  knew  more  of  the  poop  than  the  forecastle. 
For  a  month  he  was  in  and  out  of  my  house,  and 
never  once  did  it  cross  my  mind  that  harm  might 
[92] 


THE  ADVENTURE   OF  THE   CARDBOARD   BOX 

come  of  his  soft,  tricky  ways.  And  then  at  last 
something  made  me  suspect,  and  from  that  day 
my  peace  was  gone  for  ever. 

"It  was  only  a  little  thing  too.  I  had  come  into 
the  parlour  unexpected,  and  as  I  walked  in  at 
the  door  I  saw  a  light  of  welcome  on  my  wife's 
face.  But  as  she  saw  who  it  was  it  faded  again, 
and  she  turned  away  with  a  look  of  disappoint- 
ment. That  was  enough  for  me.  There  was  no 
one  but  Alec  Fairbairn  whose  step  she  could  have 
mistaken  for  mine.  If  I  could  have  seen  him 
then  I  should  have  killed  him.  for  I  have  always 
been  like  a  madman  when  my  temper  gets  loose. 
Mary  saw  the  devil's  light  in  my  eyes,  and  she 
ran  forward  with  her  hands  in  my  sleeve.  'Don't, 
Jim,  don't!'  says  she.  'Where's  Sarah?'  I  asked. 
'In  the  kitchen,'  says  she.  'Sarah,'  says  I,  as  I 
went  in,  'this  man  Fairbairn  is  never  to  darken 
my  door  again.'  'Why  not?'  says  she.  'Be- 
cause I  order  it.'  'Oh!'  says  she,  'if  my  friends 
are  not  good  enough  for  this  house,  then  I  am 
not  good  enough  for  it  either.'  'You  can  do 
what  you  like,'  says  I,  'but  if  Fairbairn  shows 
his  face  here  again,  I'll  send  you  one  of  his  ears 
for  a  keepsake.'  She  was  frightened  by  my  face, 
I  think,  for  she  never  answered  a  word,  and  the 
same  evening  she  left  my  house. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  now  whether  it  was  pure 
devilry  on  the  part  of  this  woman,  or  whether 
she  thought  that  she  could  turn  me  against  my 

[93] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


wife  by  encouraging  her  to  misbehave.  Any- 
way, she  took  a  house  just  two  streets  off,  and  let 
lodgings  to  sailors.  Fairbairn  used  to  stay  there, 
and  Mary  would  go  round  to  have  tea  with  her 
sister  and  him.  How  often  she  went  I  don't 
know,  but  I  followed  her  one  day,  and  as  I  broke 
in  at  the  door,  Fairbairn  got  away  over  the  back 
garden  wall,  like  the  cowardly  skunk  that  he  was. 
I  swore  to  my  wife  that  I  would  kill  her  if  I 
found  her  in  his  company  again,  and  I  led  her 
back  with  me,  sobbing  and  trembling,  and  as 
white  as  a  piece  of  paper.  There  was  no  trace 
of  love  between  us  any  longer.  I  could  see  that 
she  hated  me  and  feared  me,  and  when  the 
thought  of  it  drove  me  to  drink,  then  she  despised 
me  as  well. 

"Well,  Sarah  found  that  she  could  not  make 
a  living  in  Liverpool,  so  she  went  back,  as  I  un- 
derstand, to  live  with  her  sister  in  Croydon,  and 
things  jogged  on  much  the  same  as  ever  at  home. 
And  then  came  this  last  week  and  all  the  misery 
and  ruin. 

"It  was  in  this  way.  We  had  gone  on  the 
May  Day  for  a  round  voyage  of  seven  days,  but 
a  hogshead  got  loose  and  started  one  of  our 
plates,  so  that  we  had  to  put  back  into  port  for 
twelve  hours.  I  left  the  ship  and  came  home, 
thinking  what  a  surprise  it  would  be  for  my  wife, 
and  hoping  that  maybe  she  would  be  glad  to  see 
me  so  soon.  The  thought  was  in  my  head  as  I 
[94] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE    CARDBOARD    BOX 

turned  into  my  own  street,  and  at  that  moment  a 
cab  passed  me,  and  there  she  was,  sitting  by  the 
side  of  Fairbairn,  the  two  chatting  and  laughing, 
with  never  a  thought  for  me  as  I  stood  watching 
them  from  the  footpath. 

"I  tell  you,  and  I  give  you  my  word  for  it,  that 
from  that  moment  I  was  not  my  own  master, 
and  it  is  all  like  a  dim  dream  when  I  look  back 
on  it.  I  had  been  drinking  hard  of  late,  and  the 
two  things  together  fairly  turned  my  brain. 
There's  something  throbbing  in  my  head  now, 
like  a  docker's  hammer,  but  that  morning  I 
seemed  to  have  all  Niagara  whizzing  and  buzzing 
in  my  ears. 

"Well,  I  took  to  my  heels,  and  I  ran  after  the 
cab.  I  had  a  heavy  oak  stick  in  my  hand,  and  I 
tell  you  I  saw  red  from  the  first;  but  as  I  ran  I 
got  cunning,  too,  and  hung  back  a  little  to  see 
them  without  being  seen.  They  pulled  up  soon 
at  the  railway  station.  There  was  a  good  crowd 
round  the  booking-office,  so  I  got  quite  close  to 
them  without  being  seen.  They  took  tickets  for 
New  Brighton.  So  did  I,  but  I  got  in  three 
carriages  behind  them.  When  we  reached  it  they 
walked  along  the  Parade,  and  I  was  never  more 
than  a  hundred  yards  from  them.  At  last  I  saw 
them  hire  a  boat  and  start  for  a  row,  for  it  was  a 
very  hot  day,  and  they  thought  no  doubt  that 
it  would  be  cooler  on  the  water. 

"It  was  just  as  if  they  had  been  given  into 

[95] 


HIS   LAST    BOW 


my  hands.  There  was  a  bit  of  a  haze,  and  you 
could  not  see  more  than  a  few  hundred  yards. 
I  hired  a  boat  for  myself,  and  I  pulled  after  them. 
I  could  see  the  blurr  of  their  craft,  but  they  were 
going  nearly  as  fast  as  I,  and  they  must  have 
been  a  long  mile  from  the  shore  before  I  caught 
them  up.  The  haze  was  like  a  curtain  all  round 
us,  and  there  were  we  three  in  the  middle  of  it. 
My  God,  shall  I  ever  forget  their  faces  when 
they  saw  who  was  in  the  boat  that  was  closing 
in  upon  them?  She  screamed  out.  He  swore 
like  a  madman,  and  jabbed  at  me  with  an  oar, 
for  he  must  have  seen  death  in  my  eyes.  I  got 
past  it  and  got  one  in  with  my  stick,  that  crushed 
his  head  like  an  egg.  I  would  have  spared  her, 
perhaps,  for  all  my  madness,  but  she  threw  her 
arms  round  him,  crying  out  to  him,  and  calling 
him  'Alec.'  I  struck  again,  and  she  lay  stretched 
beside  him.  I  was  like  a  wild  beast  then  that 
had  tasted  blood.  If  Sarah  had  been  there,  by 
the  Lord,  she  should  have  joined  them.  I  pulled 
out  my  knife,  and — well,  there!  I've  said  enough. 
It  gave  me  a  kind  of  savage  joy  when  I  thought 
how  Sarah  would  feel  when  she  had  such  signs 
as  these  of  what  her  meddling  had  brought  about. 
Then  I  tied  the  bodies  into  the  boat,  stove  a 
plank,  and  stood  by  until  they  had  sunk.  I 
knew  very  well  that  the  owner  would  think  that 
they  had  lost  their  bearings  in  the  haze,  and  had 
drifted  off  out  to  sea.  I  cleaned  myself  up,  got 
[96] 


THE   ADVENTURE    OF   THE    CARDBOARD   BOX 

back  to  land,  and  joined  my  ship  without  a  soul 
having  a  suspicion  of  what  had  passed.  That 
night  I  made  up  the  packet  for  Sarah  Gushing, 
and  next  day  I  sent  it  from  Belfast. 

"There  you  have  the  whole  truth  of  it.  You 
can  hang  me,  or  do  what  you  like  with  me,  but 
you  cannot  punish  me  as  I  have  been  punished 
already.  I  cannot  shut  my  eyes  but  I  see  those 
two  faces  staring  at  me — staring  at  me  as  they 
stared  when  my  boat  broke  through  the  haze. 
I  killed  them  quick,  but  they  are  killing  me  slow ; 
and  if  I  have  another  night  of  it  I  shall  be  either 
mad  or  dead  before  morning.  You  won't  put 
me  alone  into  a  cell,  sir?  For  pity's  sake  don't, 
and  may  you  be  treated  in  your  day  of  agony 
as  you  treat  me  now." 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  it,  Watson?'*  said 
Holmes,  solemnly,  as  he  laid  down  the  paper. 
"What  object  is  served  by  this  circle  of  misery 
and  violence  and  fear?  It  must  tend  to  some 
end,  or  else  our  universe  is  ruled  by  chance,  which 
is  unthinkable.  But  what  end?  There  is  the 
great  standing  perennial  problem  to  which  hu- 
man reason  is  as  far  from  an  answer  as  ever." 


[97] 


Ill 

THE     ADVENTURE     OF     THE     RED 
CIRCLE 


PART  I 

T  T  TELL,  Mrs.  Warren,  I  cannot  see  that  you 
VV  have  any  particular  cause  for  uneasiness, 
nor  do  I  understand  why  I,  whose  time  is  of  some 
value,  should  interfere  in  the  matter.  I  really 
have  other  things  to  engage  me."  So  spoke 
Sherlock  Holmes,  and  turned  back  to  the  great 
scrapbook  in  which  he  was  arranging  and  in- 
dexing some  of  his  recent  material. 

But  the  landlady  had  the  pertinacity,  and  also 
the  cunning,  of  her  sex.  She  held  her  ground 
firmly. 

"You  arranged  an  affair  for  a  lodger  of  mine 
last  year,"  she  said — "Mr.  Fairdale  Hobbs." 

"Ah,  yes — a  simple  matter." 

"But  he  would  never  cease  talking  of  it — your 
kindness,  sir,  and  the  way  in  which  you  brought 
light  into  the  darkness.  I  remembered  his  words 
[98] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   RED    CIRCLE 

when  I  was  in  doubt  and  darkness  myself.  I 
know  you  could  if  you  only  would." 

Holmes  was  accessible  upon  the  side  of  flat- 
tery, and  also,  to  do  him  justice,  upon  the  side 
of  kindliness.  The  two  forces  made  him  lay 
down  his  gum-brush  with  a  sigh  of  resignation 
and  pushed  back  his  chair. 

"Well,  well,  Mrs.  Warren,  let  us  hear  about  it, 
then.  You  don't  object  to  tobacco,  I  take  it? 
Thank  you,  Watson — the  matches!  You  are 
uneasy,  as  I  understand,  because  your  new  lodger 
remains  in  his  rooms  and  you  cannot  see  him. 
Why,  bless  you,  Mrs.  Warren,  if  I  were  your 
lodger  you  often  would  not  see  me  for  weeks  on 
end." 

"No  doubt,  sir;  but  this  is  different.  It  fright- 
ens me,  Mr.  Holmes.  I  can't  sleep  for  fright. 
To  hear  his  quick  step  moving  Here  and  moving 
there  from  early  morning  to  late  at  night,  and 
yet  never  to  catch  so  much  as  a  glimpse  of  him — 
it's  more  than  I  can  stand.  My  husband  is  as 
nervous  over  it  as  I  am,  but  he  is  out  at  his  work 
all  day,  while  I  get  no  rest  from  it.  What  is  he 
hiding  for?  What  has  he  done?  Except  for 
the  girl,  I  am  all  alone  in  the  house  with  him,  and 
it's  more  than  my  nerves  can  stand." 

Holmes  leaned  forward  and  laid  his  long,  thin 
fingers  upon  the  woman's  shoulder.  He  had  an 
almost  hypnotic  power  of  soothing  when  he 
wished.  The  scared  look  faded  from  her  eyes, 

[99] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


and  her  agitated  features  smoothed  into  their 
usual  commonplace.  She  sat  down  in  the  chair 
which  he  had  indicated. 

"If  I  take  it  up  I  must  understand  every  de- 
tail," said  he.  "Take  time  to  consider.  The 
smallest  point  may  be  the  most  essential.  You 
say  that  the  man  came  ten  days  ago,  and  paid  you 
for  a  fortnight's  board  and  lodging?" 

"He  asked  my  terms,  sir.  I  said  fifty  shillings 
a  week.  There  is  a  small  sitting-room  and  bed- 
room, and  all  complete,  at  the  top  of  the  house." 

"Well?" 

"He  said,  Til  pay  you  five  pounds  a  week  if 
I  can  have  it  on  my  own  terms.'  I'm  a  poor 
woman,  sir,  and  Mr.  Warren  earns  little,  and 
the  money  meant  much  to  me.  He  took  out  a 
ten-pound  note,  and  he  held  it  out  to  me  then 
and  there.  'You  can  have  the  same  every  fort- 
night for  a  long  time  to  come  if  you  keep  the 
terms,'  he  said.  'If  not,  I'll  have  no  more  to  do 
with  you.'  " 

"What  were  the  terms?" 

"Well,  sir,  they  were  that  he  was  to  have  a  key 
of  the  house.  That  was  all  right.  Lodgers  often 
have  them.  Also,  that  he  was  to  be  left  entirely 
to  himself,  and  never,  upon  any  excuse,  to  be  dis- 
turbed." 

"Nothing  wonderful  in  that,  surely?" 

"Not  in  reason,  sir.  But  this  is  out  of  all  rea- 
son. He  has  been  there  for  ten  days,  and 
[100] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   RED    CIRCLE 

neither  Mr.  Warren,  nor  I,  nor  the  girl  has  once 
set  eyes  upon  him.  We  can  hear  that  quick  step 
of  his  pacing  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  night, 
morning,  and  noon;  but  except  on  thajt  first 
night  he  has  never  once  gone  out  of  the  house." 

"Oh,  he  went  out  the  first  night,  did  he?" 

"Yes,  sir,  and  returned  very  late — after  we 
were  all  in  bed.  He  told  me  after  he  had  taken 
the  rooms  that  he  would  do  so,  and  asked  me  not 
to  bar  the  door.  I  heard  him  come  up  the  stair 
after  midnight." 

"But  his  meals?" 

"It  was  his  particular  direction  that  we  should 
always,  when  he  rang,  leave  his  meal  upon  a 
chair,  outside  his  door.  Then  he  rings  again 
when  he  has  finished,  and  we  take  it  down  from 
the  same  chair.  If  he  wants  anything  else  he 
prints  it  on  a  slip  of  paper  and  1  'S  it." 

"Prints  it?" 

"Yes,  sir;  prints  it  in  pencil.  Just  the  word, 
nothing  more.  Here's  one  I  brought  to  show 
you— SOAP.  Here's  another— MATCH. 
This  is  one  he  left  the  first  morning — DAILY 
GAZETTE.  I  leave  that  paper  with  his  break- 
fast every  morning." 

"Dear  me,  Watson,"  said  Holmes,  staring 
with  great  curiosity  at  the  slips  of  foolscap  which 
the  landlady  had  handed  to  him,  "this  is  certainly 
a  little  unusual.  Seclusion  I  can  understand; 
but  why  print?  Printing  is  a  clumsy  process. 

[101] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


Why  not  write?    What  would  it  suggest,  Wat- 
son?" 

"That  he  desired  to  conceal  his  handwriting." 

"But  why?  What  can  it  matter  to  him  that 
his  landlady  should  have  a  word  of  his  writing? 
Still,  it  may  be  as  you  say.  Then,  again,  why 
such  laconic  messages?" 

"I  cannot  imagine." 

"It  opens  a  pleasing  field  for  intelligent  specu- 
lation. The  words  are  written  with  a  broad- 
pointed,  violet-tinted  pencil  of  a  not  unusual  pat- 
tern. You  will  observe  that  the  paper  is  torn 
away  at  the  side  here  after  the  printing  was  done, 
so  that  the  'S'  of  'SOAP'  is  partly  gone.  Sug- 
gestive, Watson,  is  it  not?" 

"Of  caution?" 

"Exactly.  There  was  evidently  some  mark, 
some  thumt  ^  ".'it,  something  which  might  give 
a  clue  to  the  person's  identity.  Now,  Mrs. 
Warren,  you  say  that  the  man  was  of  middle  size, 
dark,  and  bearded.  What  age  would  he  be?" 

"Youngish,  sir — not  over  thirty." 

"Well,  can  you  give  me  no  further  indica- 
tions?" 

"He  spoke  good  English,  sir,  and  yet  I  thought 
he  was  a  foreigner  by  his  accent." 

"And  he  was  well  dressed?" 

"Very  smartly  dressed,  sir — quite  the  gentle- 
man. Dark  clothes — nothing  you  would  note." 

"He  gave  no  name?" 
[102] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   RED    CIRCLE 

"No,  sir." 

"And  has  had  no  letters  or  callers?" 

"None." 

"But  surely  you  or  the  girl  enter  his  room 
of  a  morning?" 

"No,  sir;  he  looks  after  himself  entirely." 

"Dear  me!  that  is  certainly  remarkable. 
What  about  his  luggage?" 

"He  had  one  big  brown  bag  with  him — nothing 
else." 

"Well,  we  don't  seem  to  have  much  material 
to  help  us.  Do  you  say  nothing  has  come  out  of 
that  room — absolutely  nothing?" 

The  landlady  drew  an  envelope  from  her  bag; 
from  it  she  shook  out  two  burnt  matches  and  a 
cigarette-end  upon  the  table. 

"They  were  on  his  tray  this  morning.  I 
brought  them  because  I  had  heard  that  you  can 
read  great  things  out  of  small  ones." 

Holmes  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"There  is  nothing  here,"  said  he.  "The 
matches  have,  of  course,  been  used  to  light  cig- 
arettes. That  is  obvious  from  the  shortness  of 
the  burnt  end.  Half  the  match  is  consumed  in 
lighting  a  pipe  or  cigar.  But,  dear  me !  this  cig- 
arette stub  is  certainly  remarkable.  The  gentle- 
man was  bearded  and  moustached,  you  say?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  don't  understand  that.  I  should  say  that 
only  a  clean-shaven  man  could  have  smoked  this. 

[103] 


HIS   LAST    BOW 


Why,  Watson,  even  your  modest  moustache 
would  have  been  singed." 

"A  holder?"  I  suggested. 

"No,  no;  the  end  is  matted.  I  suppose  there 
could  not  he  two  people  in  your  rooms,  Mrs. 
Warren?" 

"No,  sir.  He  eats  so  little  that  I  often  wonder 
it  can  keep  life  in  one." 

"Well,  I  think  we  must  wait  for  a  little  more 
material.  After  all,  you  have  nothing  to  com- 
plain of.  You  have  received  your  rent,  and  he 
is  not  a  troublesome  lodger,  though  he  is  cer- 
tainly an  unusual  one.  He  pays  you  well,  and 
if  he  chooses  to  lie  concealed  it  is  no  direct  busi- 
ness of  yours.  We  have  no  excuse  for  an  intru- 
sion upon  his  privacy  until  we  have  some  reason 
to  think  that  there  is  a  guilty  reason  for  it.  I've 
taken  up  the  matter,  and  I  won't  lose  sight  of  it. 
Report  to  me  if  anything  fresh  occurs,  and  rely 
upon  my  assistance  if  it  should  be  needed. 

"There  are  certainly  some  points  of  interest  in 
this  case,  Watson,"  he  remarked,  when  the  land- 
lady had  left  us.  "It  may.  of  course,  be  trivial — 
individual  eccentricity ;  or  it  may  be  very  much 
deeper  than  appears  on  the  surface.  The  first 
thing  that  strikes  one  is  the  obvious  possibility 
that  the  person  now  in  the  rooms  may  be  entirely 
different  from  the  one  who  engaged  them." 

"Why  should  you  think  so?" 

"Well,  apart  from  this  cigarette-end,  was  it 
[104] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   RED    CIRCLE 

not  suggestive  that  the  only  time  the  lodger  went 
out  was  immediately  after  his  taking  the  rooms? 
He  came  back — or  someone  came  back — when 
all  witnesses  were  out  of  the  way.  We  have  no 
proof  that  the  person  who  came  back  was  the  per- 
son who  went  out.  Then,  again,  the  man  who 
took  the  rooms  spoke  English  well.  This  other, 
however,  prints  'match'  when  it  should  have  been 
'matches.'  I  can  imagine  that  the  word  was 
taken  out  of  a  dictionary,  which  would  give  the 
noun  but  not  the  plural.  The  laconic  style  may 
be  to  conceal  the  absence  of  knowledge  of  Eng- 
lish. Yes,  Watson,  there  are  good  reasons  to 
suspect  that  there  has  been  a  substitution  of 
lodgers." 

"But  for  what  possible  end?" 

"Ah!  there  lies  our  problem.  There  is  one 
rather  obvious  line  of  investigation."  He  took 
down  the  great  book  in  which,  day  by  day,  he  filed 
the  agony  columns  of  the  various  London  jour- 
nals. "Dear  me!"  said  he,  turning  over  the 
pages,  "what  a  chorus  of  groans,  cries,  and  bleat- 
ings!  What  a  rag-bag  of  singular  happenings! 
But  surely  the  most  valuable  hunting-ground 
that  ever  was  given  to  a  student  of  the  unusual! 
This  person  is  alone,  and  cannot  be  approached 
by  letter  without  a  breach  of  that  absolute  secrecy 
which  is  desired.  How  is  any  news  or  any  mes- 
sage to  reach  him  from  without?  Obviously 
by  advertisement  through  a  newspaper.  There 

[105] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


seems  no  other  way,  and  fortunately  we  need  con- 
cern ourselves  with  the  one  paper  only.  Here 
are  the  Daily  Gazette  extracts  of  the  last  fort- 
night. 'Lady  with  a  black  boa  at  Prince's  Skat- 
ing Club' — that  we  may  pass.  'Surely  Jimmy 
will  not  break  his  mother's  heart' — that  appears 
to  be  irrelevant.  'If  the  lady  who  fainted  in 
the  Brixton  bus' — she  does  not  interest  me. 

'Every  day  my  heart  longs '     Bleat,  Watson 

— unmitigated  bleat!  Ah!  this  is  a  little  more 
possible.  Listen  to  this:  'Be  patient.  Will 
find  some  sure  means  of  communication.  Mean- 
while, this  column. — G.'  That  is  two  days  after 
Mrs.  Warren's  lodger  arrived.  It  sounds  plaus- 
ible, does  it  not?  The  mysterious  one  could  un- 
derstand English,  even  if  he  could  not  print  it. 
Let  us  see  if  we  can  pick  up  the  trace  again. 
Yes,  here  we  are- — three  days  later.  'Am  mak- 
ing successful  arrangements.  Patience  and  pru- 
dence. The  clouds  will  pass. — G.'  Nothing  for  a 
week  after  that.  Then  comes  something  much 
more  definite :  'The  path  is  clearing.  If  I  find 
chance  signal  message  remember  code  agreed — 
one  A,  two  B,  and  so  on.  You  will  hear  soon. 
— G.'  That  was  in  yesterday's  paper,  and  there 
is  nothing  in  to-day's.  It's  all  very  appropriate 
to  Mrs.  Warren's  lodger.  If  we  wait  a  little, 
Watson,  I  don't  doubt  that  the  affair  will  grow 
more  intelligible." 

So  it  proved;  for  in  the  morning  I  found  my 
[106] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   RED    CIRCLE 

friend  standing  on  the  hearthrug  with  his  back 
to  the  fire,  and  a  smile  of  complete  satisfaction 
upon  his  face. 

"How's  this,  Watson?"  he  cried,  picking  up 
the  paper  from  the  table.  "  'High  red  house 
with  white  stone  facings.  Third  floor.  Second 
window  left.  After  dusk.— G.'  That  is  definite 
enough.  I  think  after  breakfast  we  must  make 
a  little  reconnaissance  of  Mrs.  Warren's  neigh- 
bourhood. Ah,  Mrs.  Warren !  what  news  do  you 
bring  us  this  morning?" 

Our  client  had  suddenly  burst  into  the  room 
with  an  explosive  energy  which  told  of  some  new 
and  momentous  development. 

"It's  a  police  matter,  Mr.  Holmes!"  she  cried. 
"I'll  have  no  more  of  it!  He  shall  pack  out  of 
that  with  his  baggage.  I  would  have  gone 
straight  up  and  told  him  so,  only  I  thought  it  was 
but  fair  to  you  to  take  your  opinion  first.  But 
I'm  at  the  end  of  my  patience,  and  when  it  comes 
to  knocking  my  old  man  about " 

"Knocking  Mr.  Warren  about?" 

"Using  him  roughly,  anyway." 

"But  who  used  him  roughly?" 

"Ah!  that's  what  we  want  to  know!  It  was 
this  morning,  sir.  Mr.  Warren  is  a  timekeeper 
at  Morton  and  Waylight's,  in  Tottenham  Court 
Road.  He  has  to  be  out  of  the  house  before 
seven.  Well,  this  morning  he  had  not  gone  ten 
paces  down  the  road  when  two  men  came  up  be- 

[107] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


hind  him,  threw  a  coat  over  his  head,  and  bundled 
him  into  a  cab  that  was  beside  the  kerb.  They 
drove  him  an  hour,  and  then  opened  the  door  and 
shot  him  out.  He  lay  in  the  roadway  so  shaken 
in  his  wits  that  he  never  saw  what  became  of  the 
cab.  When  he  picked  himself  up  he  found  he 
was  on  Hampstead  Heath;  so  he  took  a  bus 
home,  and  there  he  lies  now  on  the  sofa,  while  I 
came  straight  round  to  tell  you  what  had  hap- 
pened." 

"Most  interesting,"  said  Holmes.  "Did  he 
observe  the  appearance  of  these  men — did  he  hear 
them  talk?" 

"No;  he  is  clean  dazed.  He  just  knows  that 
he  was  lifted  up  as  if  by  magic  and  dropped 
as  if  by  magic.  Two  at  least  were  in  it,  and 
maybe  three." 

"And  you  connect  this  attack  with  your 
lodger?" 

"Well,  we've  lived  there  fifteen  years  and  no 
such  happenings  ever  came  before.  I've  had 
enough  of  him.  Money's  not  everything.  I'll 
have  him  out  of  my  house  before  the  day  is  done." 

"Wait  a  bit,  Mrs.  Warren.  Do  nothing  rash. 
I  begin  to  think  that  this  affair  may  be  very 
much  more  important  than  appeared  at  first 
sight.  It  is  clear  now  that  some  danger  is  threat- 
ening your  lodger.  It  is  equally  clear  that  his 
enemies,  lying  in  wait  for  him  near  your  door, 
mistook  your  husband  for  him  in  the  foggy 
[108] 


THE   ADVENTURE    OF   THE   RED    CIRCLE 

morning  light.  On  discovering  their  mistake 
they  released  him.  What  they  would  have  done 
had  it  not  been  a  mistake,  we  can  only  conjec- 
ture." 

"Well,  what  am  I  to  do,  Mr.  Holmes?" 

"I  have  a  great  fancy  to  see  this  lodger  of 
yours,  Mrs.  Warren." 

"I  don't  see  how  that  is  to  be  managed,  unless 
you  break  in  the  door.  I  always  hear  him  unlock 
it  as  I  go  down  the  stair  after  I  leave  the  tray." 

"He  has  to  take  the  tray  in.  Surely  we  could 
conceal  ourselves  and  see  him  do  it." 

The  landlady  thought  for  a  moment. 

"Well,  sir,  there's  the  box-room  opposite.  I 
could  arrange  a  looking-glass,  maybe,  and  if  you 
were  behind  the  door " 

"Excellent!"  said  Holmes.  "When  does  he 
lunch?" 

"About  one,  sir." 

"Then  Dr.  Watson  and  I  will  come  round  in 
time.  For  the  present,  Mrs.  Warren,  good-bye." 

At  half-past  twelve  we  found  ourselves  upon 
the  steps  of  Mrs.  Warren's  house — a  high,  thin, 
yellow-brick  edifice  in  Great  Orme  Street,  a  nar- 
row thoroughfare  at  the  north-east  side  of  the 
British  Museum.  Standing  as  it  does  near  the 
corner  of  the  street,  it  commands  a  view  down 
Howe  Street,  with  its  more  pretentious  houses. 
Holmes  pointed  with  a  chuckle  to  one  of  these, 

[109] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


a  row  of  residential  flats,  which  projected  so 
that  they  could  not  .fail  to  catch  the  eye. 

"See,  Watson!"  said  he.  "  'High  red  house 
with  stone  facings.'  There  is  the  signal  station 
all  right.  We  know  the  place,  and  we  know  the 
code ;  so  surely  our  task  should  be  simple.  There's 
a  'To  Let'  card  in  that  window.  It  is  evidently 
an  empty  flat  to  which  the  confederate  has  ac- 
cess. Well,  Mrs.  Warren,  what  now?" 

"I  have  it  all  ready  for  you.  If  you  will  both 
come  up  and  leave  your  boots  below  on  the  land- 
ing, I'll  put  you  there  now." 

It  was  an  excellent  hiding-place  which  she  had 
arranged.  The  mirror  was  so  placed  that,  seated 
in  the  dark,  we  could  very  plainly  see  the  door 
opposite.  We  had  hardly  settled  down  in  it,  and 
Mrs.  Warren  left  us,  when  a  distant  tinkle  an- 
nounced that  our  mysterious  neighbour  had  rung. 
Presently  the  landlady  appeared  with  the  tray, 
laid  it  down  upon  a  chair  beside  the  closed  door, 
and  then,  treading  heavily,  departed.  Crouch- 
ing together  in  the  angle  of  the  door,  we  kept  our 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  mirror.  Suddenly,  as  the 
landlady's  footsteps  died  away,  there  was  the 
creak  of  a  turning  key,  the  handle  revolved,  and 
two  thin  hands  darted  out  and  lifted  the  tray 
from  the  chair.  An  instant  later  it  was  hurriedly 
replaced,  and  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  dark,  beau- 
tiful, horrified  face  glaring  at  the  narrow  opening 
of  the  box-room.  Then  the  door  crashed  to,  the 
[110] 


THE  ADVENTURE   OF   THE   RED   CIRCLE 

key  turned  once  more,  and  all  was  silence. 
Holmes  twitched  my  sleeve,  and  together  we  stole 
down  the  stair. 

"I  will  call  again  in  the  evening,"  said  he  to 
the  expectant  landlady.  "I  think,  Watson,  we 
can  discuss  this  business  better  in  our  own  quar- 
ters." 

"My  surmise,  as  you  saw,  proved  to  be  cor- 
rect," said  he,  speaking  from  the  depths  of  his 
easy-chair.  "There  has  been  a  substitution  of 
lodgers.  What  I  did  not  foresee  is  that  we 
should  find  a  woman,  and  no  ordinary  woman, 
Watson." 

"She  saw  us." 

"Well,  she  saw  something  to  alarm  her.  That 
is  certain.  The  general  sequence  of  events  is 
pretty  clear,  is  it  not?  A  couple  seek  refuge  in 
London  from  a  very  terrible  and  instant  danger. 
The  measure  of  that  danger  is  the  rigour  of  their 
precautions.  The  man,  who  has  some  work 
which  he  must  do,  desires  to  leave  the  woman  in 
absolute  safety  while  he  does  it.  It  is  not  an 
easy  problem,  but  he  solved  it  in  an  original  fash- 
ion, and  so  effectively  that  her  presence  was  not 
even  known  to  the  landlady  who  supplies  her 
with  food.  The  printed  messages,  as  is  now  evi- 
dent, were  to  prevent  her  sex  being  discovered 
by  her  writing.  The  man  cannot  come  near  the 
woman,  or  he  will  guide  their  enemies  to  her. 
Since  he  cannot  communicate  with  her  direct,  he 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


has  recourse  to  the  agony  column  of  a  paper.  So 
far  all  is  clear." 

"But  what  is  at  the  root  of  it?" 

"Ah,  yes,  Watson — severely  practical,  as 
usual!  What  is  at  the  root  of  it  all?  Mrs. 
Warren's  whimsical  problem  enlarges  somewhat 
and  assumes  a  more  sinister  aspect  as  we  pro- 
ceed. This  much  we  can  say :  that  it  is  no  ordi- 
nary love  escapade.  You  saw  the  woman's  face 
at  the  sign  of  danger.  We  have  heard,  too,  of 
the  attack  upon  the  landlord,  which  was  un- 
doubtedly meant  for  the  lodger.  These  alarms, 
and  the  desperate  need  for  secrecy,  argue  that 
the  matter  is  one  of  life  or  death.  The  attack 
upon  Mr.  Warren  further  shows  that  the  enemy, 
whoever  they  are,  are  themselves  not  aware  of  the 
substitution  of  the  female  lodger  for  the  male. 
It  is  very  curious  and  complex,  Watson." 

"Why  should  you  go  further  in  it  ?  What  have 
you  to  gain  from  it?" 

"What,  indeed?  It  is  Art  for  Art's  sake, 
Watson.  I  suppose  when  you  doctored  you 
found  yourself  studying  cases  without  thought 
of  a  fee?" 

"For  my  education,  Holmes." 

"Education  never  ends,  Watson.  It  is  a  series 
of  lessons  with  the  greatest  for  the  last.  This 
is  an  instructive  case.  There  is  neither  money 
nor  credit  in  it,  and  yet  one  would  wish  to  tidy 
it  up.  When  dusk  comes  we  should  find  our- 
[112] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   RED   CIRCLE 

selves  one  stage  advanced  in  our  investigation." 
When  we  returned  to  Mrs.  Warren's  rooms, 
the  gloom  of  a  London  winter  evening  had  thick- 
ened into  one  grey  curtain,  a  dead  monotone  of 
colour,  broken  only  by  the  sharp  yellow  squares 
of  the  windows  and  the  blurred  haloes  of  the  gas- 
lamps.  As  we  peered  from  the  darkened  sitting- 
room  of  the  lodging-house,  one  more  dim  light 
glimmered  high  up  through  the  obscurity. 

"Someone  is  moving  in  that  room,"  said 
Holmes  in  a  whisper,  his  gaunt  and  eager  face 
thrust  forward  to  the  window-pane.  ''Yes,  I 
can  see  his  shadow.  There  he  is  again!  He  has  a 
candle  in  his  hand.  Now  he  is  peering  across.  He 
wants  to  be  sure  that  she  is  on  the  look-out.  Now 
he  begins  to  flash.  Take  the  message  also,  Wat- 
son, that  we  may  check  each  other.  A  single  flash 
— that  is  'A,'  surely.  Now,  then.  How  many  did 
you  make  it?  Twenty.  So  did  I.  That  should 
mean  'T.'  AT — that's  intelligible  enough! 
Another  'T.'  Surely  this  is  the  beginning  of  a 
second  word.  Now,  then— TENTA.  Dead 
stop.  That  can't  be  all,  Watson?  'ATTEN- 
TA'  gives  no  sense.  Nor  is  it  any  better  as  three 
words— 'AT.  TEN.  TA,'  unless  'T.  A.'  are  a 
person's  initials.  There  it  goes  again!  What's 
that?  ATTE — why,  it  is  the  same  message  over 
again.  Curious,  Watson,  very  curious!  Now 
he  is  off  once  more!  AT — why,  he  is  repeating 
it  for  the  third  time.  'ATTENT  A'  three  times ! 

[113] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


How  often  will  he  repeat  it?  No,  that  seems  to 
be  the  finish.  He  has  withdrawn  from  the  win- 
dow. What  do  you  make  of  it,  Watson?" 

"A  cipher  message,  Holmes." 

My  companion  gave  a  sudden  chuckle  of  com- 
prehension. "And  not  a  very  obscure  cipher, 
Watson,"  said  he.  "Why,  of  course,  it  is  Ital- 
ian! The  'A'  means  that  it  is  addressed  to  a 
woman.  'Beware!  Beware!  Beware!'  How's 
that,  Watson?" 

"I  believe  you  have  hit  it." 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it.  It  is  a  very  urgent  mes- 
sage, thrice  repeated  to  make  it  more  so.  But 
beware  of  what?  Wait  a  bit;  he  is  coming  to  the 
window  once  more." 

Again  we  saw  the  dim  silhouette  of  a  crouch- 
ing man  and  the  whisk  of  the  small  flame  across 
the  window,  as  the  signals  were  renewed.  They 
came  more  rapidly  than  before — so  rapid  that  it 
was  hard  to  follow  them. 

"  TERICOLO'— 'Pericolo'— Eh,  what's  that, 
Watson?  Danger,  isn't  it?  Yes,  by  Jove,  it's 
a  danger  signal.  There  he  goes  again !  'PERI.' 
Halloa,  what  on  earth " 

The  light  had  suddenly  gone  out,  the  glimmer- 
ing square  of  window  had  disappeared,  and  the 
third  floor  formed  a  dark  band  round  the  lofty 
building,  with  its  tiers  of  shining  casements. 
That  last  warning  cry  had  been  suddenly  cut 
short.  How,  and  by  whom?  The  same  thought 
[114] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   RED    CIRCLE 

occurred  on  the  instant  to  us  both.  Holmes 
sprang  up  from  where  he  crouched  by  the  win- 
dow. 

"This  is  serious,  Watson,"  he  cried.  "There 
is  some  devilry  going  forward!  Why  should 
such  a  message  stop  in  such  a  way?  I  should 
put  Scotland  Yard  in  touch  with  this  business 
— and  yet,  it  is  too  pressing  for  us  to  leave.  rt 

"Shall  I  go  for  the  police?" 

"We  must  define  the  situation  a  little  more 
clearly.  It  may  bear  some  more  innocent 
interpretation.  Come,  Watson,  let  us  go  across 
ourselves  and  see  what  we  can  make  of  it." 


PART  II 

As  we  walked  rapidly  down  Howe  Street  I 
glanced  back  at  the  building  which  we  had 
left.  There,  dimly  outlined  at  the  top  window, 
I  could  see  the  shadow  of  a  head,  a  woman's  head, 
gazing  tensely,  rigidly,  out  into  the  night,  wait- 
ing with  breathless  suspense  for  the  renewal  of 
that  interrupted  message.  At  the  doorway  of 
the  Howe  Street  flats  a  man,  muffled  in  a  cravat 
and  greatcoat,  was  leaning  against  the  railing. 
He  started  as  the  hall-light  fell  upon  our  faces. 

"Holmes!"  he  cried. 

"Why,  Gregson!"  said  my  companion,  as  he 
shook  hands  with  the  Scotland  Yard  detective. 

[115] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"Journeys  end  with  lovers'  meetings.  What 
brings  you  here?" 

"The  same  reasons  that  bring  you,  I  expect," 
said  Gregson.  "How  you  got  on  to  it  I  can't 
imagine." 

"Different  threads,  but  leading  up  to  the  same 
tangle.  I've  been  taking  the  signals." 

"Signals?" 

"Yes,  from  that  window.  They  broke  off  in 
the  middle.  We  came  over  to  see  the  reason. 
But  since  it  is  safe  in  your  hands  I  see  no  object 
in  continuing  the  business." 

"Wait  a  bit!"  cried  Gregson,  eagerly.  "I'll 
do  you  this  justice,  Mr.  Holmes,  that  I  was  never 
in  a  case  yet  that  I  didn't  feel  stronger  for  having 
you  on  my  side.  There's  only  the  one  exit  to 
these  flats,  so  we  have  him  safe." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Well,  well,  we  score  over  you  for  once,  Mr. 
Holmes.  You  must  give  us  best  this  time."  He 
struck  his  stick  sharply  upon  the  ground,  on 
which  a  cabman,  his  whip  in  his  hand,  sauntered 
over  from  a  four-wheeler  which  stood  on  the  far 
side  of  the  street.  "May  I  introduce  you  to  Mr. 
Sherlock  Holmes?"  he  said  to  the  cabman.  "This 
is  Mr.  Leverton,  of  Pinkerton's  American 
Agency." 

"The  hero  of  the  Long  Island  Cave  mystery?" 
said  Holmes.  "Sir,  I  am  pleased  to  meet  you." 

The  American,  a  quiet,  businesslike  young 
[116] 


THE  ADVENTURE   OF   THE   RED    CIRCLE 

man,  with  a  clean-shaven,  hatchet  face,  flushed 
up  at  the  words  of  commendation.  "I  am  on 
the  trail  of  my  life  now,  Mr.  Holmes,"  said  he. 
"If  I  can  get  Gorgiano " 

"What !    Gorgiano  of  the  Red  Circle  ?" 

"Oh,  he  has  a  European  fame,  has  he?  Well, 
we've  learned  all  about  him  in  America.  We 
know  he  is  at  the  bottom  of  fifty  murders,  and 
yet  we  have  nothing  positive  we  can  take  him  on. 
I  tracked  him  over  from  New  York,  and  I've 
been  close  to  him  for  a  week  in  London,  waiting 
some  excuse  to  get  my  hand  on  his  collar.  Mr. 
Gregson  and  I  ran  him  to  ground  in  that  big  ten- 
ement house,  and  there's  only  the  one  door,  so  he 
can't  slip  us.  There's  three  folk  come  out  since 
he  went  in,  but  I'll  swear  he  wasn't  one  of  them." 

"Mr.  Holmes  talks  of  signals,"  said  Gregson. 
"I  expect,  as  usual,  he  knows  a  good  deal  that 
we  don't." 

In  a  few  clear  words  Holmes  explained  the 
situation  as  it  had  appeared  to  us.  The  Ameri- 
can struck  his  hands  together  with  vexation. 

"He's  on  to  us!"  he  cried. 

"Why  do  you  think  so?" 

"Well,  it  figures  out  that  way,  does  it  not? 
Here  he  is,  sending  out  messages  to  an  accomplice 
— there  are  several  of  his  gang  in  London.  Then 
suddenly,  just  as  by  your  own  account  he  was  tell- 
ing them  that  there  was  danger,  he  broke  short 
off.  What  could  it  mean  except  that  from  the 

[117] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


window  he  had  suddenly  either  caught  sight  of 
us  in  the  street,  or  in  some  way  come  to  under- 
stand how  close  the  danger  was,  and  that  he 
must  act  right  away  if  he  was  to  avoid  it?  What 
do  you  suggest,  Mr.  Holmes?" 

"That  we  go  up  at  once  and  see  for  ourselves." 
"But  we  have  no  warrant  for  his  arrest." 
"He  is  in  unoccupied  premises  under  suspi- 
cious circumstances,"  said  Gregson.     "That  is 
good  enough  for  the  moment.     When  we  have 
him  by  the  heels  we  can  see  if  New  York  can't 
help  us  to  keep  him.     I'll  take  the  responsibility 
of  arresting  him  now." 

Our  official  detectives  may  blunder  in  the  mat- 
ter of  intelligence,  but  never  in  that  of  courage. 
Gregson  climbed  the  stair  to  arrest  this  desperate 
murderer  with  the  same  absolutely  quiet  and 
businesslike  bearing  with  which  he  would  have 
ascended  the  official  staircase  of  Scotland  Yard. 
The  Pinkerton  man  had  tried  to  push  past  him, 
but  Gregson  had  firmly  elbowed  him  back.  Lon- 
don dangers  were  the  privilege  of  the  London 
force. 

The  door  of  the  left-hand  flat  upon  the  third 
landing  was  standing  ajar.  Gregson  pushed  it 
open.  Within  all  was  absolute  silence  and  dark- 
ness. I  struck  a  match,  and  lit  the  detective's 
lantern.  As  I  did  so,  and  as  the  flicker  steadied 
into  a  flame,  we  all  gave  a  gasp  of  surprise.  On 
the  deal  boards  of  the  carpetless  floor  there  was 
[118] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   RED    CIRCLE 

outlined  a  fresh  track  of  blood.  The  red  steps 
pointed  towards  us,  and  led  away  from  an  inner 
room,  the  door  of  which  was  closed.  Gregson 
flung  it  open  and  held  his  light  full  blaze  in  front 
of  him,  whilst  we  all  peered  eagerly  over  his 
shoulders. 

In  the  middle  of  the  floor  of  the  empty  room 
was  huddled  the  figure  of  an  enormous  man,  his 
clean-shaven,  swarthy  face  grotesquely  horrible 
in  its  contortion,  and  his  head  encircled  by  a 
ghastly  crimson  halo  of  blood,  lying  in  a  broad 
wet  circle  upon  the  white  woodwork.  His  knees 
were  drawn  up,  his  hands  thrown  out  in  agony, 
and  from  the  centre  of  his  broad,  brown,  upturned 
throat  there  projected  the  white  haft  of  a  knife 
driven  blade-deep  into  his  body.  Giant  as  he 
was,  the  man  must  have  gone  down  like  a  pole- 
axed  ox  before  that  terrific  blow.  Beside  his 
right  hand  a  most  formidable  horn-handled,  two- 
edged  dagger  lay  upon  the  floor,  and  near  it  a 
black  kid  glove. 

"By  George!  it's  Black  Gorgiano  himself!" 
cried  the  American  detective.  "Someone  has  got 
ahead  of  us  this  time." 

"Here  is  the  candle  in  the  window,  Mr. 
Holmes,"  said  Gregson.  "Why,  whatever  are 
you  doing?" 

Holmes  had  stepped  across,  had  lit  the  candle, 
and  was  passing  it  backwards  and  forwards  across 
the  window-panes.  Then  he  peered  into  the 

[119] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


darkness,  blew  the  candle  out,  and  threw  it  on  the 
floor. 

"I  rather  think  that  will  be  helpful,"  said  he. 
He  came  over  and  stood  in  deep  thought  while 
the  two  professionals  were  examining  the  body. 
"You  say  that  three  people  came  out  from  the 
flat  while  you  were  waiting  downstairs,"  said  he, 
at  last.  "Did  you  observe  them  closely?" 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"Was  there  a  fellow  about  thirty,  black- 
bearded,  dark,  of  middle  size?" 

"Yes;  he  was  the  last  to  pass  me." 

"That  is  your  man,  I  fancy.  I  can  give  you 
his  description,  and  we  have  a  very  excellent  out- 
line of  his  footmark.  That  should  be  enough  for 
you." 

"Not  much,  Mr.  Holmes,  among  the  millions 
of  London." 

"Perhaps  not.  That  is  why  I  thought  it  best 
to  summon  this  lady  to  your  aid." 

We  all  turned  round  at  the  words.  There, 
framed  in  the  doorway,  was  a  tall  and  beautiful 
woman — the  mysterious  lodger  of  Bloomsbury. 
Slowly  she  advanced,  her  face  pale  and  drawn 
with  a  frightful  apprehension,  her  eyes  fixed 
and  staring,  her  terrified  gaze  riveted  upon  the 
dark  figure  on  the  floor. 

"You  have  killed  him!"  she  muttered.  "Oh, 
Dio  mio,  you  have  killed  him!"  Then  I  heard 
a  sudden  sharp  intake  of  her  breath,  and  she 
[120] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   RED    CIRCLE 

sprang  into  the  air  with  a  cry  of  joy.  Round  and 
round  the  room  she  danced,  her  hands  clapping^ 
her  dark  eyes  gleaming  with  delighted  wonder, 
and  a  thousand  pretty  Italian  exclamations  pour- 
ing from  her  lips.  It  was  terrible  and  amazing 
to  see  such  a  woman  so  convulsed  with  joy  at  such 
a  sight.  Suddenly  she  stopped  and  gazed  at  us 
all  with  a  questioning  stare. 

"But  you!  You  are  police,  are  you  not?  You 
have  killed  Giuseppe  Gorgiano.  Is  it  not  so?" 

"We  are  police,  madam." 

She  looked  round  into  the  shadows  of  the  room. 

"But  where,  then,  is  Gennaro?"  she  asked. 
"He  is  my  husband,  Gennaro  Lucca.  I  am  Em- 
ilia Lucca,  and  we  are  both  from  New  York. 
Where  is  Gennaro?  He  called  me  this  moment 
from  this  window,  and  I  ran  with  all  my  speed." 

"It  was  I  who  called,"  said  Holmes. 

"You !     How  could  you  call  ?" 

"Your  cipher  was  not  difficult,  madam.  Your 
presence  here  was  desirable.  I  knew  that  I  had 
only  to  flash  'Vieni'  and  you  would  surely  come." 

The  beautiful  Italian  looked  with  awe  at  my 
companion. 

"I  do  not  understand  how  you  know  these 
things,"  she  said.  "Giuseppe  Gorgiano — how 

did  he "  She  paused,  and  then  suddenly  her 

face  lit  up  with  pride  and  delight.  "Now  I  see 
it !  My  Gennaro !  My  splendid,  beautiful  Gen- 
xiaro,  who  has  guarded  me  safe  from  all  harm,  he 

[121] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


did  it,  with  his  own  strong  hand  he  killed  the 
monster !  Oh,  Gennaro,  how  wonderful  you  are ! 
What  woman  could  ever  be  worthy  of  such  a 
man?" 

"Well,  Mrs.  Lucca,"  said  the  prosaic  Gregson, 
laying  his  hand  upon  the  lady's  sleeve  with  as 
little  sentiment  as  if  she  were  a  Notting  Hill 
hooligan,  "I  am  not  very  clear  yet  who  you  are 
or  what  you  are ;  but  you've  said  enough  to  make 
it  very  clear  that  we  shall  want  you  at  the  Yard." 

"One  moment,  Gregson,"  said  Holmes.  "I 
rather  fancy  that  this  lady  may  be  as  anxious  to 
give  us  information  as  we  can  be  to  get  it.  You 
understand,  madam,  that  your  husband  will  be  ar- 
rested and  tried  for  the  death  of  the  man  who  lies 
before  us?  What  you  say  may  be  used  in  evi- 
dence. But  if  you  think  that  he  has  acted  from 
motives  which  are  not  criminal,  and  which  he 
would  wish  to  have  known,  then  you  cannot  serve 
him  better  than  by  telling  us  the  whole  story." 

"Now  that  Gorgiano  is  dead  we  fear  nothing," 
said  the  lady.  "He  was  a  devil  and  a  monster, 
and  there  can  be  no  judge  in  the  world  who  would 
punish  my  husband  for  having  killed  him." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Holmes,  "my  suggestion 
is  that  we  lock  this  door,  leave  things  as  we  found 
them,  go  with  this  lady  to  her  room,  and  form 
our  opinion  after  we  have  heard  what  it  is  that  she 
has  fa  gay  to  us." 
[122] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   RED    CIRCLE 

Half  an  hour  later  we  were  seated,  all  four,  in 
the  small  sitting-room  of  Signer  a  Lucca,  lis- 
tening to  her  remarkable  narrative  of  those  sin- 
ister events,  the  ending  of  which  we  had  chanced 
to  witness.  She  spoke  in  rapid  and  fluent  but 
very  unconventional  English,  which,  for  the  sake 
of  clearness,  I  will  make  grammatical. 

"I  was  born  in  Posilippo,  near  Naples,"  said 
she,  "and  was  the  daughter  of  Augusto  Barelli, 
who  was  the  chief  lawyer  and  once  the  deputy  of 
that  part.  Gennaro  was  in  my  father's  employ- 
ment, and  I  came  to  love  him,  as  any  woman 
must.  He  had  neither  money  nor  position — 
nothing  but  his  beauty  and  strength  and  energy 
— so  my  father  forbade  the  match.  We  fled  to- 
gether, were  married  at  Bari,  and  sold  my  jewels 
to  gain  the  money  which  would  take  us  to  Amer- 
ica. This  was  four  years  ago,  and  we  have  been 
in  New  York  ever  since. 

"Fortune  was  very  good  to  us  at  first.  Gen- 
naro was  able  to  do  a  service  to  an  Italian  gen- 
tleman— he  saved  him  from  some  ruffians  in  the 
place  called  the  Bowery,  and  so  made  a  powerful 
friend.  His  name  was  Tito  Castalotte,  and  he 
was  the  senior  partner  of  the  great  firm  of  Casta- 
lotte and  Zamba,  who  are  the  chief  fruit  importers 
of  New  York.  Signer  Zamba  is  an  invalid,  and 
our  new  friend  Castalotte  has  all  power  within 
the  firm,  which  employs  more  than  three  hundred 
men.  He  took  my  husband  into  his  employment, 

[123] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


made  him  head  of  a  department,  and  showed  his 
goodwill  towards  him  in  every  way.  Signor 
Castalotte  was  a  bachelor,  and  I  believe  that  he 
felt  as  if  Gennaro  was  his  son,  and  both  my  hus- 
band and  I  loved  him  as  if  he  were  our  father. 
We  had  taken  and  furnished  a  little  house  in 
Brooklyn,  and  our  whole  future  seemed  assured, 
when  that  black  cloud  appeared  which  was  soon 
to  overspread  our  sky. 

"One  night,  when  Gennaro  returned  from  his 
work,  he  brought  a  fellow-countryman  back  with 
him.  His  name  was  Gorgiano,  and  he  had  come 
also  from  Posilippo.  He  was  a  huge  man,  as 
you  can  testify,  for  you  have  looked  upon  his 
corpse.  Not  only  was  his  body  that  of  a  giant, 
but  everything  about  him  was  grotesque,  gigan- 
tic, and  terrifying.  His  voice  was  like  thunder 
in  our  little  house.  There  was  scarce  room  for 
the  whirl  of  his  great  arms  as  he  talked.  His 
thoughts,  his  emotions,  his  passions,  all  were  ex- 
aggerated and  monstrous.  He  talked,  or  rather 
roared,  with  such  energy  that  others  could  but  sit 
and  listen,  cowed  with  the  mighty  stream  of 
words.  His  eyes  blazed  at  you  and  held  you  at 
his  mercy.  He  was  a  terrible  and  wonderful 
man.  I  thank  God  that  he  is  dead ! 

"He  came  again  and  again.     Yet  I  was  aware 

that  Gennaro  was  no  more  happy  than  I  was  in 

his  presence.     My  poor  husband  would  sit  pale 

and  listless,  listening  to  the  endless  raving  upon 

[124] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   RED    CIRCLE 

politics  and  upon  social  questions  which  made  up 
our  visitor's  conversation.  Gennaro  said  noth- 
ing, but  I  who  knew  him  so  well  could  read  in 
his  face  some  emotion  which  I  had  never  seen 
there  before.  At  first  I  thought  that  it  was  dis- 
like. And  then,  gradually,  I  understood  that  it 
was  more  than  dislike.  It  was  fear — a  deep,  se- 
cret, shrinking  fear.  That  night — the  night  that 
I  read  his  terror — I  put  my  arms  round  him  and 
I  implored  him  by  his  love  for  me  and  by  all  that 
he  held  dear  to  hold  nothing  from  me,  and  to  tell 
me  why  this  huge  man  overshadowed  him  so. 

"He  told  me,  and  my  own  heart  grew  cold  as 
ice  as  I  listened.  My  poor  Gennaro,  in  his  wild 
and  fiery  days,  when  all  the  world  seemed  against 
him  and  his  mind  was  driven  half  mad  by  the 
injustices  of  life,  had  joined  a  Neapolitan  society, 
the  Red  Circle,  which  was  allied  to  the  old  Car- 
bonari. The  oaths  and  secrets  of  this  brother- 
hood were  frightful;  but  once  within  its  rule  no 
escape  was  possible.  When  we  had  fled  to 
America  Gennaro  thought  that  he  had  cast  it 
all  off  for  ever.  What  was  his  horror  one  even- 
ing to  meet  in  the  streets  the  very  man  who  had 
initiated  him  in  Naples,  the  giant  Gorgiano,  a 
man  who  had  earned  the  name  of  'Death'  in  the 
South  of  Italy,  for  he  was  red  to  the  elbow  in 
murder!  He  had  come  to  New  York  to  avoid 
the  Italian  police,  and  he  had  already  planted  a 
branch  of  this  dreadful  society  in  his  new  home. 

[125] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


All  this  Gennaro  told  me,  and  showed  me  a  sum- 
mons which  he  had  received  that  very  day,  a  Red 
Circle  drawn  upon  the  head  of  it,  telling  him  that 
a  lodge  would  be  held  upon  a  certain  date,  and 
that  his  presence  at  it  was  required  and  ordered. 

"That  was  bad  enough,  but  worse  was  to  come. 
I  had  noticed  for  some  time  that  when  Gorgiano 
came  to  us,  as  he  constantly  did,  in  the  evening, 
he  spoke  much  to  me;  and  even  when  his  words 
were  to  my  husband  those  terrible,  glaring,  wild- 
beast  eyes  of  his  were  always  turned  upon  me. 
One  night  his  secret  came  out.  I  had  awakened 
what  he  called  'love'  within  him — the  love  of  a 
brute — a  savage.  Gennaro  had  not  yet  returned 
when  he  came.  He  pushed  his  way  in,  seized  me 
in  his  mighty  arms,  hugged  me  in  his  bear's  em- 
brace, covered  me  with  kisses,  and  implored  me 
to  come  away  with  him.  I  was  struggling  and 
screaming  when  Gennaro  entered  and  attacked 
him.  He  struck  Gennaro  senseless  and  fled 
from  the  house  which  he  was  never  more  to  enter. 
It  was  a  deadly  enemy  that  we  made  that  night. 

"A  few  days  later  came  the  meeting.  Gen- 
naro returned  from  it  with  a  face  which  told  me 
that  something  dreadful  had  occurred.  It  was 
worse  than  we  could  have  imagined  possible. 
The  funds  of  the  society  were  raised  by  black- 
mailing rich  Italians  and  threatening  them  with 
violence  should  they  refuse  the  money.  It 
seems  that  Castalotte,  our  dear  friend  and  bene- 
[126] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   RED    CIRCLE 

factor,  had  been  approached.  He  had  refused 
to  yield  to  threats,  and  he  had  handed  the  notices 
to  the  police.  It  was  resolved  now  that  such  an 
example  should  be  made  of  him  as  would  prevent 
any  other  victim  from  rebelling.  At  the  meeting 
it  was  arranged  that  he  and  his  house  should  be 
blown  up  with  dynamite.  There  was  a  drawing 
of  lots  as  to  who  should  carry  out  the  deed.  Gen- 
naro  saw  our  enemy's  cruel  face  smiling  at  him  as 
he  dipped  his  hand  in  the  bag.  No  doubt  it  had 
been  pre-arranged  in  some  fashion,  for  it  was  the 
fatal  disc  with  the  Red  Circle  upon  it,  the  man- 
date for  murder,  which  lay  upon  his  palm.  He 
was  to  kill  his  best  friend,  or  he  was  to  expose  him- 
self and  me  to  the  vengeance  of  his  comrades. 
It  was  part  of  their  fiendish  system  to  punish 
those  whom  they  feared  or  hated  by  injuring  not 
only  their  own  persons,  but  those  whom  they 
loved,  and  it  was  the  knowledge  of  this  which 
hung  as  a  terror  over  my  poor  Gennaro's  head 
and  drove  him  nearly  crazy  with  apprehension. 
"All  that  night  we  sat  together,  our  arms 
round  each  other,  each  strengthening  each  for 
the  troubles  that  lay  before  us.  The  very  next 
evening  had  been  fixed  for  the  ai '  _.jjt.  By  mid- 
day my  husband  and  I  were  on  our  way  to  Lon- 
don, but  not  before  he  had  given  our  benefac- 
tor full  warning  of  his  danger,  and  had  also  left 
such  information  for  the  police  as  would  safe- 
guard his  life  for  the  future. 

[127] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"The  rest,  gentlemen,  you  know  for  yourselves. 
We  were  sure  that  our  enemies  would  be  behind 
us  like  our  own  shadows.  Gorgiano  had  his 
private  reasons  for  vengeance,  but  in  any  case 
we  knew  how  ruthless,  cunning,  and  untiring  he 
could  be.  Both  Italy  and  America  are  full  of 
stories  of  his  dreadful  powers.  If  ever  they  were 
exerted  it  would  be  now.  My  darling  made  use  of 
the  few  clear  days  which  our  start  had  given  us  in 
arranging  for  a  refuge  for  me  in  such  a  fashion 
that  no  possible  danger  could  reach  me.  For  his 
own  part,  he  wished  to  be  free  that  he  might  com- 
municate both  with  the  American  and  with  the 
Italian  police.  I  do  not  myself  know  where  he 
lived,  or  how.  All  that  I  learned  was  through  the 
columns  of  a  newspaper.  But  once,  as  I  looked 
through  my  window,  I  saw  two  Italians  watching 
the  house,  and  I  understood  that  in  some  way 
Gorgiano  had  found  out  our  retreat.  Finally 
Gennaro  told  me,  through  the  paper,  that  he 
would  signal  to  me  from  a  certain  window,  but 
when  the  signals  came  they  were  nothing  but 
warnings,  which  were  suddenly  interrupted.  It 
is  very  clear  to  me  now  that  he  knew  Gorgiano 
to  be  close  _A..;:a  him,  and  that,  thank  God!  he 
was  ready  for  him  when  he  came.  And  now, 
gentlemen,  I  would  ask  you  whether  we  have 
anything  to  fear  from  the  Law,  or  whether  any 
judge  upon  earth  would  condemn  my  Gennaro 
for  what  he  has  done?" 
[128] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   RED    CIRCLE 

"Well,  Mr.  Gregson,"  said  the  American,  look- 
ing across  at  the  official,  "I  don't  know  what 
your  British  point  of  view  may  be,  but  I  guess 
that  in  New  York  this  lady's  husband  will  receive 
a  pretty  general  vote  of  thanks." 

"She  will  have  to  come  with  me  and  see  the 
Chief,"  Gregson  answered.  "If  what  she  says 
is  corroborated,  I  do  not  think  she  or  her  hus- 
band has  much  to  fear.  But  what  I  can't  make 
head  or  tail  of,  Mr.  Holmes,  is  how  on  earth  you 
got  yourself  mixed  up  in  the  matter." 

"Education,  Gregson,  education.  Still  seek- 
ing knowledge  at  the  old  university.  Well, 
Watson,  you  have  one  more  specimen  of  the 
tragic  and  grotesque  to  add  to  your  collection. 
By  the  way,  it  is  not  eight  o'clock,  and  a  Wagner 
night  at  Covent  Garden !  If  we  hurry,  we  might 
be  in  time  for  the  second  act." 


[129] 


IV 

THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE- 
PARTINGTON  PLANS 


IN  the  third  week  of  November,  in  the  year 
1895,  a  dense  yellow  fog  settled  down  upon 
London.  From  the  Monday  to  the  Thursday 
I  doubt  whether  it  was  ever  possible  from  our 
windows  in  Baker  Street  to  see  the  loom  of  the 
opposite  houses.  The  first  day  Holmes  had 
spent  in  cross-indexing  his  huge  book  of  refer- 
ences. The  second  and  third  had  been  patiently 
occupied  upon  a  subject  which  he  had  recently 
made  his  hobby — the  music  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
But  when,  for  the  fourth  time,  after  pushing 
back  our  chairs  from  breakfast  we  saw  the 
greasy,  heavy  brown  swirl  still  drifting  past  us 
and  condensing  in  oily  drops  upon  the  window- 
panes,  my  comrade's  impatient  and  active 
nature  could  endure  this  drab  existence  no 
longer.  He  paced  restlessly  about  our  sitting- 
room  in  a  fever  of  suppressed  energy,  biting  his 
[130] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

nails,  tapping  the  furniture,  and  chafing  against 
inaction. 

"Nothing  of  interest  in  the  paper,  Watson?" 
he  said. 

I  was  aware  that  by  anything  of  interest, 
Holmes  meant  anything  of  criminal  interest. 
There  was  the  news  of  a  revolution,  of  a  possible 
war,  and  of  an  impending  change  of  Govern- 
ment; but  these  did  not  come  within  the  horizon 
of  my  companion.  I  could  see  nothing  recorded 
in  the  shape  of  crime  which  was  not  commonplace 
and  futile.  Holmes  groaned  and  resumed  his 
restless  meanderings. 

"The  London  criminal  is  certainly  a  dull  fel- 
low," said  he,  in  the  querulous  voice  of  the  sports- 
man whose  game  has  failed  him.  "Look  out  of 
this  window,  Watson.  See  how  the  figures  loom 
up,  are  dimly  seen,  and  then  blend  once  more  into 
the  cloud-bank.  The  thief  or  the  murderer  could 
roam  London  on  such  a  day  as  the  tiger  does  the 
jungle,  unseen  until  he  pounces,  and  then  evi- 
dent only  to  his  victim." 

"There  have,"  said  I,  "been  numerous  petty 
thefts." 

Holmes  snorted  his  contempt. 

"This  great  and  sombre  stage  is  set  for  some- 
thing more  worthy  than  that,"  said  he.  "It  is 
fortunate  for  this  community  that  I  am  not  a 
criminal." 

"It  is,  indeed!"  said  I,  heartily. 

[131] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"Suppose  that  I  were  Brooks  or  Woodhouse, 
or  any  of  the  fifty  men  who  have  good  reason 
for  taking  my  life,  how  long  could  I  survive 
against  my  own  pursuit?  A  summons,  a  bogus 
appointment,  and  all  would  be  over.  It  is  well 
they  don't  have  days  of  fog  in  the  Latin  coun- 
tries— the  countries  of  assassination.  By  Jove! 
here  comes  something  at  last  to  break  our  dead 
monotony." 

It  was  the  maid  with  a  telegram.  Holmes 
tore  it  open  and  burst  out  laughing. 

"Well,  well!  What  next?"  said  he.  "Brother 
Mycroft  is  coming  round." 

"Why  not?"  I  asked. 

"Why  not?  It  is  as  if  you  met  a  tram-car 
coming  down  a  country  lane.  Mycroft  has  his 
rails  and  he  runs  on  them.  His  Pall  Mall  lodg- 
ings, the  Diogenes  Club,  Whitehall — that  is  his 
cycle.  Once,  and  only  once,  he  has  been 
here.  What  upheaval  can  possibly  have  derailed 
him?" 

"Does  he  not  explain?" 

Holmes  handed  me  his  brother's  telegram. 

"Must  see  you  over  Cadogan  West.  Coming 
at  once.  MYCROFT." 

"Cadogan  West?     I  have  heard  the  name." 

"It     recalls    nothing    to    my    mind.      But 
that  Mycroft  should  break  out  in  this  erratic 
fashion!    A  planet  might  as  well  leave  its  orbit. 
By  the  way,  do  you  know  what  Mycroft  is?" 
[132] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRTJCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

I  had  some  vague  recollection  of  an  explana- 
tion at  the  time  of  the  Adventure  of  the  Greek 
Interpreter. 

"You  told  me  that  he  had  some  small  office 
under  the  British  Government." 

Holmes  chuckled. 

"I  did  not  know  you  quite  so  well  in  those 
days.  One  has  to  be  discreet  when  one  talks 
of  high  matters  of  state.  You  are  right  in  think- 
ing that  he  is  under  the  British  Government. 
You  would  also  be  right  in  a  sense  if  you 
said  that  occasionally  he  is  the  British  Govern- 
ment." 

"My  dear  Holmes!" 

"I  thought  I  might  surprise  you.  Mycroft 
draws  four  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year,  re- 
mains a  subordinate,  has  no  ambitions  of  any 
kind,  will  receive  neither  honour  nor  title,  but 
remains  the  most  indispensable  man  in  the 
country." 

"But  how?" 

"Well,  his  position  is  unique.  He  has  made 
it  for  himself.  There  has  never  been  anything 
like  it  before,  nor  will  be  again.  He  has  the 
tidiest  and  most  orderly  brain,  with  the  greatest 
capacity  for  storing  facts,  of  any  man  living. 
The  same  great  powers  which  I  have  turned 
to  the  detection  of  crime  he  has  used  for  this 
particular  business.  The  conclusions  of  every 
department  are  passed  to  him,  and  he  is  the 

[133] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


central  exchange,  the  clearing-house,  which  makes 
out  the  balance.  All  other  men  are  specialists, 
but  his  specialism  is  omniscience.  We  will 
suppose  that  a  Minister  needs  information  as 
to  a  point  which  involves  the  Navy,  India, 
Canada  and  the  bimetallic  question;  he  could 
get  his  separate  advices  from  various  depart- 
ments upon  each,  but  only  Mycroft  can 
focus  them  all,  and  say  off-hand  how  each 
factor  would  affect  the  other.  They  began  by 
using  him  as  a  short-cut,  a  convenience;  now 
he  has  made  himself  an  essential.  In  that  great 
brain  of  his  everything  is  pigeon-holed,  and  can 
be  handed  out  in  an  instant.  Again  and  again 
his  word  has  decided  the  national  policy.  He 
lives  in  it.  He  thinks  of  nothing  else  save 
when,  as  an  intellectual  exercise,  he  unbends 
if  I  call  upon  him  and  ask  him  to  advise  me  on 
one  of  my  little  problems.  But  Jupiter  is 
descending  to-day.  What  on  earth  can  it 
mean?  Who  is  Cadogan  West,  and  what  is  he 
to  Mycroft?" 

"I  have  it,"  I  cried,  and  plunged  among  the 
litter  of  papers  upon  the  sofa.  "Yes,  yes,  here 
he  is,  sure  enough !  Cadogan  West  was  the  young 
man  who  was  found  dead  on  the  Underground  on 
Tuesday  morning." 

Holmes  sat  up  at  attention,  his  pipe  half-way 
to  his  lips. 

"This  must  be  serious,  Watson.  A  death 
[134] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

which  has  caused  my  brother  to  alter  his  habits 
can  be  no  ordinary  one.  What  in  the  world  can 
he  have  to  do  with  it?  The  case  was  featureless 
as  I  remember  it.  The  young  man  had  appar- 
ently fallen  out  of  the  train  and  killed  himself. 
He  had  not  been  robbed,  and  there  was  no  par- 
ticular reason  to  suspect  violence.  Is  that  not 
so?" 

"There  has  been  an  inquest,"  said  I,  "and  a 
good  many  fresh  facts  have  come  out.  Looked 
at  more  closely,  I  should  certainly  say  that  it 
was  a  curious  case." 

"Judging  by  its  effect  upon  my  brother,  I 
should  think  it  must  be  a  most  extraordinary 
one."  He  snuggled  down  in  his  armchair.  "Now, 
Watson,  let  us  have  the  facts." 

"The  man's  name  was  Arthur  Cadogan  West. 
He  was  twenty-seven  years  of  age,  unmarried, 
and  a  clerk  at  Woolwich  Arsenal." 

"Government  employ.  Behold  the. link  with 
brother  Mycroft!" 

"He  left  Woolwich  suddenly  on  Monday 
night.  Was  last  seen  by  his  fiancee,  Miss 
Violet  Westbury,  whom  he  left  abruptly  in  the 
fog  about  7.30  that  evening.  There  was  no 
quarrel  between  them  and  she  can  give  no 
motive  for  his  action.  The  next  thing  heard 
of  him  was  when  his  dead  body  was  discovered 
by  a  plate-layer  named  Mason,  just  outside 

[135] 


HIS   LAST    BOW 


Aldgate  Station  on  the  Underground  system  in 
London." 

"When?" 

"The  body  was  found  at  six  on  the  Tuesday 
morning.  It  was  lying  wide  of  the  metals 
upon  the  left  hand  of  the  track  as  one  goes  east- 
ward, at  a  point  close  to  the  station,  where  the 
line  emerges  from  the  tunnel  in  which  it  runs. 
The  head  was  badly  crushed — an  injury  which 
might  well  have  been  caused  by  a  fall 
from  the  train.  The  body  could  only  have  come 
on  the  line  in  that  way.  Had  it  been  carried 
down  from  any  neighbouring  street,  it  must  have 
passed  the  station  barriers,  where  a  collector  is 
always  standing.  This  point  seems  absolutely 
certain." 

"Very  good.  The  case  is  definite  enough. 
The  man,  dead  or  alive,  either  fell  or  was  pre- 
cipitated from  a  tain.  So  much  is  clear  to  me. 
Continue." 

"The  trains  which  traverse  the  lines  of  rail 
V>eside  which  the  body  was  found  are  those  which 
run  from  west  to  east,  some  being  purely  Metro- 
politan, and  some  from  Willesden  and  outlying 
junctions.  It  can  be  stated  for  certain  that  this 
young  man,  when  he  met  his  death,  was  travelling 
in  this  direction  at  some  late  hour  of  the  night, 
but  at  what  point  he  entered  the  train  it  is  im- 
possible to  state." 

"His  ticket,  of  course,  would  show  that." 
[136] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRTJCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

"There  was  no  ticket  in  his  pockets." 

"No  ticket!  Dear  me,  Watson,  this  is  really 
very  singular.  According  to  my  experience  it 
is  not  possible  to  reach  the  platform  of  a  Metro- 
politan train  without  exhibiting  one's  ticket. 
Presumably,  then,  the  young  man  had  one.  Was 
it  taken  from  him.  in  order  to  conceal  the  station 
from  which  he  came?  It  is  possible.  Or 
did  he  drop  it  in  the  carriage?  That  also  is  pos- 
sible. But  the  point  is  of  curious  interest. 
I  understand  that  there  was  no  sign  of  rob- 
bery?" 

"Apparently  not.  There  is  a  list  here  of  his 
possessions.  His  purse  contained  two  pounds 
fifteen.  He  had  also  a  cheque-book  on  the 
Woolwich  branch  of  the  Capital  and  Coun- 
ties Bank.  Through  this  his  identity  was  estab- 
lished. There  were  also  two  dress-circle  tickets 
for  the  Woolwich  Theatre,  dated  for  that  very 
evening.  Also  a  small  packet  of  technical 
papers." 

Holmes  gave  an  exclamation  of  satisfaction. 

"There  we  have  it  at  last,  Watson!  British  Gov- 
ernment— Woolwich.  Arsenal — Technical  pa- 
pers— Brother  Mycroft,  the  chain  is  complete. 
But  here  he  comes,  if  I  am  not  mistaken  to 
speak  for  himself." 

A  moment  later  the  tall  and  portly  form  of 
Mycroft  Holmes  was  ushered  into  the  room. 
Heavily  built  and  massive,  there  was  a  sugges- 

[137] 


HIS  LAST   BOW 


tion  of  uncouth  physical  inertia  in  the  figure, 
but  above  this  unwieldy  frame  there  was  perched 
a  head  so  masterful  in  its  brow,  so  alert  in  its 
steel-grey,  deep-set  eyes,  so  firm  in  its  lips,  and 
so  subtle  in  its  play  of  expression,  that  after  the 
first  glance  one  forgot  the  gross  body  and  remem- 
bered only  the  dominant  mind. 

At  his  heels  came  our  old  friend  Lestrade,  of 
Scotland  Yard — thin  and  austere.  The  gravity 
of  both  their  faces  foretold  some  weighty  quest. 
The  detective  shook  hands  without  a  word.  My- 
croft  Holmes  struggled  out  of  his  overcoat  and 
subsided  into  an  armchair. 

"A  most  annoying  business,  Sherlock,"  said 
he.  "I  extremely  dislike  altering  my  habits,  but 
the  powers  that  be  would  take  no  denial.  In  the 
present  state  of  Siam  it  is  most  awkward  that 
I  should  be  away  from  the  office.  But  it  is  a  real 
crisis.  I  have  never  seen  the  Prime  Minister  so 
upset.  As  to  the  Admiralty — it  is  buzzing  like 
an  overturned  bee-hive.  Have  you  read  up  the 
case?" 

"We  have  just  done  so.  What  were  the  tech- 
nical papers?" 

"Ah,  there's  the  point!  Fortunately,  it  has 
not  come  out.  The  Press  would  be  furious  if  it 
did.  The  papers  which  this  wretched  youth  had 
in  his  pocket  were  the  plans  of  the  Bruce-Part- 
ington  submarine." 

v     Mycrof t  Holmes  spoke  with  a  solemnity  which 
[138] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON  PLANS 

showed  his  sense  of  the  importance  of  the  subject. 
His  brother  and  I  sat  expectant. 

"Surely  you  have  heard  of  it  ?  I  thought  every- 
one had  heard  of  it." 

"Only  as  a  name." 

"Its  importance  can  hardly  be  exaggerated. 
It  has  been  the  most  jealously  guarded  of  all 
Government  secrets.  You  may  take  it  from  me 
that  naval  warfare  becomes  impossible  within  the 
radius  of  a  Bruce-Partington's  operation.  Two 
years  ago  a  very  large  sum  was  smuggled  through 
the  Estimates  and  was  expended  in  acquir- 
ing a  monopoly  of  the  invention.  Every  effort 
has  been  made  to  keep  the  secret.  The  plans, 
which  are  exceedingly  intricate,  comprising 
some  thirty  separate  patents,  each  essential  to 
^the  working  of  the  whole,  are  kept  in  an 
elaborate  safe  in  a  confidential  office  adjoining 
the  Arsenal,  with  burglar-proof  doors  and 
windows.  Under  no  conceivable  circumstances 
were  the  plans  to  be  taken  from  the  office.  If 
the  Chief  Constructor  of  the  Navy  desired  to 
consult  them,  even  he  was  forced  to  go  to  the 
Woolwich  office  for  the  purpose.  And  yet  here 
we  find  them  in  the  pockets  of  a  dead  junior 
clerk  in  the  heart  of  London.  From  an  official 
point  of  view  it's  simply  awful." 

"But  you  have  recovered  them?" 

"No,  Sherlock,  no!  That's  the  pinch.  We 
have  not.  Ten  papers  were  taken  from  Wool- 

[139] 


HIS   LAST    BOW 


wich.  There  were  seven  in  the  pockets  of 
Cadogan  West.  The  three  most  essential  are 
gone — stolen,  vanished.  You  must  drop  every- 
thing, Sherlock.  Never  mind  your  usual  petty 
puzzles  of  the  police-court.  It's  a  vital  inter- 
national problem  that  you  have  to  solve.  Why 
did  Cadogan  West  take  the  papers,  where  are 
the  missing  ones,  how  did  he  die,  how  came  his 
body  where  it  was  found,  how  can  the  evil  be 
set  right  ?  Find  an  answer  to  all  these  questions, 
and  you  will  have  done  good  service  for  your 
country." 

"Why  do  you  not  solve  it  yourself,  My  croft? 
You  can  see  as  far  as  I." 

"Possibly,  Sherlock.  But  it  is  a  question  of 
getting  details.  Give  me  your  details,  and  from 
an  arm-chair  I  will  return  you  an  excellent  ex- 
pert opinion.  But  to  run  here  and  run  there,  to 
cross-question  railway  guards,  and  lie  on  my  face 
with  a  lens  to  my  eye — it  is  not  my  metier.  No, 
you  are  the  one  man  who  can  clear  the  matter  up. 
If  you  have  a  fancy  to  see  your  name  in  the  next 
honours  list " 

My  friend  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"I  play  the  game  for  the  game's  own  sake/' 
said  he.  "But  the  problem  certainly  presents 
some  points  of  interest,  and  I  shall  be  very 
pleased  to  look  into  it.  Some  more  facts, 
please." 

"I  have  jotted  down  the  more  essential  ones 
[140] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE- PARTINGTON   PLANS 

upon  this  sheet  of  paper,  together  with  a  few 
addresses  which  you  will  find  of  service.  The 
actual  official  guardian  of  the  papers  is  the 
famous  Government  expert,  Sir  James  Walter, 
whose  decorations  and  sub-titles  fill  two  lines 
of  a  book  of  reference.  He  has  grown  grey  in 
the  service,  is  a  gentleman,  a  favoured  guest  in 
the  most  exalted  houses,  and  above  all  a  man 
whose  patriotism  is  beyond  suspicion.  He  is  one 
of  two  who  have  a  key  of  the  safe.  I  may  add 
that  the  papers  were  undoubtedly  in  the  office 
during  working  hours  on  Monday,  and  that  Sir 
James  left  for  London  about  three  o'clock 
taking  his  key  with  him.  He  was  at  the  house 
of  Admiral  Sinclair  at  Barclay  Square  during 
the  whole  of  the  evening  when  this  incident  oc- 
curred." 

"Has  the  fact  been  verified?" 

"Yes;  his  brother,  Colonel  Valentine  Walter, 
has  testified  to  his  departure  from  Woolwich, 
and  Admiral  Sinclair  to  his  arrival  in  London; 
so  Sir  James  is  no  longer  a  direct  factor  in  the 
problem." 

"Who  was  the  other  man  with  a  key?" 

"The  senior  clerk  and  draughtsman,  Mr.  Sid- 
ney Johnson.  He  is  a  man  of  forty,  married, 
with  five  children.  He  is  a  silent,  morose  man, 
but  he  has,  on  the  whole,  an  excellent  record 
in  the  public  service.  He  is  unpopular  with  his 
colleagues,  but  a  hard  worker.  According  to 

[141] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


his  own  account,  corroborated  only  by  the 
word  of  his  wife,  he  was  at  home  the  whole  of 
Monday  evening  after  office  hours,  and  his  key 
has  never  left  the  watch-chain  upon  which  it 
hangs." 

"Tell  us  about  Cadogan  West." 

"He  has  been  ten  years  in  the  Service,  and 
has  done  good  work.  He  has  the  reputation  of 
being  hot-headed  and  impetuous,  but  a  straight, 
honest  man.  We  have  nothing  against  him.  He 
was  next  Sidney  Johnson  in  the  office.  His  du- 
ties brought  him  into  daily,  personal  contact  with 
the  plans.  No  one  else  had  the  handling  of 
them." 

"Who  locked  the  plans  up  that  night?" 

"Mr.  Sidney  Johnson,  the  senior  clerk." 

"Well,  it  is  surely  perfectly  clear  who  took 
them  away.  They  are  actually  found  upon  the 
person  of  this  junior  clerk,  Cadogan  West.  That 
seems  final,  does  it  not  ?" 

"It  does,  Sherlock,  and  yet  it  leaves  so  much 
unexplained.  In  the  first  place,  why  did  he  take 
them?" 

"I  presume  they  were  of  value?" 

"He  could  have  got  several  thousands  for  them 
very  easily." 

"Can  you  suggest  any  possible  motive  for 
taking  the  papers  to  London  except  to  sell 
them?" 

"No,  I  cannot." 
[142] 


ADVENTUEE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

"Then  we  must  take  that  as  our  working 
hypothesis.  Young  West  took  the  papers.  Now 
this  could  only  be  done  by  having  a  false 
key " 

"Several  false  keys.  'He  had  to  open  the  build- 
ing and  the  room." 

"He  had,  then,  several  false  keys.  He  took 
the  papers  to  London  to  sell  the  secret,  intend- 
ing, no  doubt,  to  have  the  plans  themselves 
back  in  the  safe  next  morning  before  they  were 
missed.  While  in  London  on  this  treasonable 
mission  he  met  his  end." 

"How?" 

"We  will  suppose  that  he  was  travelling  back 
to  Woolwich  when  he  was  killed  and  thrown 
out  of  the  compartment." 

"Aldgate,  where  the  body  was  found,  is  con- 
siderably past  the  station  for  London  Bridge, 
which  would  be  his  route  to  Woolwich." 

"Many  circumstances  could  be  imagined  under 
which  he  would  pass  London  Bridge.  There  was 
someone  in  the  carriage,  for  example  with  whom 
he  was  having  an  absorbing  interview.  This  in- 
terview led  to  a  violent  scene,  in  which  he  lost  his 
life.  Possibly  he  tried  to  leave  the  carriage,  fell 
out  on  the  line,  and  so  met  his  end.  The  other 
closed  the  door.  There  was  a  thick  fog,  and  noth- 
ing could  be  seen." 

"No  better  explanation  can  be  given  with  our 
present  knowledge;  and  yet  consider,  Sherlock, 

[143] 


HIS   LAST    BOW 


how  much  you  leave  untouched.  We  will  sup- 
pose, for  argument's  sake,  that  young  Cadogan 
West  had  determined  to  convey  these  papers 
to  London.  He  would  naturally  have  made 
an  appointment  with  the  foreign  agent  and 
kept  his  evening  clear.  Instead  of  that  he 
took  two  tickets  for  the  theatre,  escorted 
his  fiancee  half-way  there,  and  then  suddenly 
disappeared." 

"A  blind,"  said  Lestrade,  who  had  sat  lis- 
tening with  some  impatience  to  the  conversa- 
tion. 

"A  very  singular  one.  That  is  objection  No. 
1.  Objection  No.  2:  We  will  suppose  that  he 
reaches  London  and  sees  the  foreign  agent.  He 
must  bring  back  the  papers  before  morning  or 
the  loss  will  be  discovered.  He  took  away  ten. 
Only  seven  were  in  his  pocket.  What  had  be- 
come of  the  other  three?  He  certainly  would 
not  leave  them  of  his  own  free  will.  Then,  again, 
where  is  the  price  of  his  treason?  One  would 
have  expected  to  find  a  large  sum  of  money  in 
his  pocket." 

"It  seems  to  me  perfectly  clear,"  said  Les- 
trade. "I  have  no  doubt  at  all  as  to  what  oc- 
curred. He  took  the  papers  to  sell  them.  He 
saw  the  agent.  They  could  not  agree  as  to  price. 
He  started  home  again,  but  the  agent  went  with 
him.  In  the  train  the  agent  murdered  him,  took 
[144] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

the  more  essential  papers,  and  threw  his  body 
from  the  carriage.  That  would  account  for 
everything,  would  it  not?" 

"Why  had  he  no  ticket?" 

"The  ticket  would  have  shown  which  station 
was  nearest  the  agent's  house.  Therefore  he  took 
it  from  the  murdered  man's  pocket." 

"Good,  Lestrade,  very  good,"  said  Holmes. 
"Your  theory  holds  together.  But  if  this  is  true, 
then  the  case  is  at  an  end.  On  the  one  hand  the 
traitor  is  dead.  On  the  other  the  plans  of  the 
Bruce-Partington  submarine  are  presumably  al- 
ready on  the  Continent.  What  is  there  for  us  to 
do?" 

"To  act,  Sherlock — to  act!"  cried  Mycroft, 
springing  to  his  feet,  "All  my  instincts  are 
against  this  explanation.  Use  your  powers !  Go 
to  the  scene  of  the  crime!  See  the  people  con- 
cerned! Leave  no  stone  unturned!  In  all  your 
career  you  have  never  had  so  great  a  chance  of 
serving  your  country." 

"Well,  well!"  said  Holmes,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "Come,  Watson!  And  you,  Les- 
trade, could  you  favour  us  with  your  company 
for  an  hour  or  two?  We  will  begin  our  investi- 
gation by  a  visit  to  Aldgate  Station.  Good-bye, 
Mycroft.  I  shall  let  you  have  a  report  before 
evening,  but  I  warn  you  in  advance  that  you 
have  little  to  expect." 

[145] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


An  hour  later,  Holmes,  Lestrade  and  I,  stood 
upon  the  underground  railroad  at  the  point 
where  it  emerges  from  the  tunnel  immediately 
before  Aldgate  Station.  A  courteous  red-faced 
old  gentleman  represented  the  railway  company. 

"This  is  where  the  young  man's  body  lay," 
said  he,  indicating  a  spot  about  three  feet  from 
the  metals.  ''It  could  not  have  fallen  from 
above,  for  these,  as  you  see,  are  all  blank  walls. 
Therefore,  it  could  only  have  come  from  a  train, 
and  that  train,  so  far  as  we  can  trace  it,  must 
have  passed  about  midnight  on  Monday." 

"Have  the  carriages  been  examined  for  any 
sign  of  violence?" 

"There  are  no  such  signs,  and  no  ticket  has 
been  found." 

"No  record  of  a  door  being  found  open?" 

"None." 

"We  have  had  some  fresh  evidence  this  morn- 
ing," said  Lestrade.  "A  passenger  who  passed 
Aldgate  in  an  ordinary  Metropolitan  train  about 
11.40  on  Monday  night  declares  that  he  heard  a 
heavy  thud,  as  of  a  body  striking  the  line,  just 
before  the  train  reached  the  station.  There  was 
dense  fog,  however,  and  nothing  could  be  seen. 
He  made  no  report  of  it  at  the  time.  Why,  what- 
ever is  the  matter  with  Mr.  Holmes?" 

My  friend  was  standing  with  an  expression 
of  strained  intensity  upon  his  face,  staring  at 
the  railway  metals  where  they  curved  out  of  the 
[146] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

tunnel.  Aldgate  is  a  junction,  and  there  was  a 
network  of  points.  On  these  his  eager,  question- 
ing eyes  were  fixed,  and  I  saw  on  his  keen,  alert 
face  that  tightening  of  the  lips,  that  quiver  of 
the  nostrils,  and  concentration  of  the  heavy  tufted 
brows  which  I  knew  so  well. 

"Points,"  he  muttered;  "the  points." 

"What  of  it?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  suppose  there  are  no  great  number  of  points 
on  a  system  such  as  this?" 

"No ;  there  are  very  few." 

"And  a  curve,  too.  Points,  and  a  curve.  By 
Jove !  if  it  were  only  so." 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Holmes?    Have  you  a  clue?" 

"An  idea — an  indication,  no  more.  But  the 
case  certainly  grows  in  interest.  Unique,  per- 
fectly unique,  and  yet  why  not?  I  do  not  see 
any  indications  of  bleeding  on  the  line." 

"There  were  hardly  any." 

"But  I  understand  that  there  was  a  consider- 
able wound." 

"The  bone  was  crushed,  but  there  was  no  great 
external  injury." 

"And  yet  one  would  have  expected  some  bleed- 
ing. Would  it  be  possible  for  me  to  inspect  the 
train  which  contained  the  passenger  who  heard 
the  thud  of  a  fall  in  the  fog?" 

"I  fear  not,  Mr.  Holmes.  The  train  has  been 
broken  up  before  now,  and  the  carriages  redis- 
tributed." 

[147] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"I  can  assure  you,  Mr.  Holmes,"  said  Lestrade, 
"that  every  carriage  has  been  carefully  examined. 
I  saw  to  it  myself." 

It  was  one  of  my  friend's  most  obvious  weak- 
nesses that  he  was  impatient  with  less  alert  in- 
telligences than  his  own. 

"Very  likely,"  said  he,  turning  away.  "As  it 
happens,  it  was  not  the  carriages  which  I  desired 
to  examine.  Watson,  we  have  done  all  we  can 
here.  We  need  not  trouble  you  any  further,  Mr. 
Lestrade.  I  think  our  investigations  must  now 
carry  us  to  Woolwich." 

At  London  Bridge,  Holmes  wrote  a  telegram 
to  his  brother,  which  he  handed  to  me  before  dis- 
patching it.  It  ran  thus : 

"See  some  light  in  the  darkness,  but  it  may  pos- 
sibly flicker  out.  Meanwhile,  please  send  by 
messenger,  to  await  return  at  Baker  Street,  a 
complete  list  of  all  foreign  spies  or  international 
agents  known  to  be  in  England,  with  full  ad- 
dress.—SHERLOCK." 

"That  should  be  helpful,  Watson,"  he  re- 
marked, as  we  took  our  seats  in  the  Woolwich 
train.  "We  certainly  owe  brother  My  croft  a 
debt  for  having  introduced  us  to  what  promises 
to  be  a  really  very  remarkable  case." 

His  eager  face  still  wore  that  expression  of 
intense  and  high-strung  energy,  which  showed 
[148] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

me  that  some  novel  and  suggestive  circumstance 
had  opened  up  a  stimulating  line  of  thought. 
See  the  foxhound  with  hanging  ears  and  droop- 
ing tail  as  it  lolls  about  the  kennels,  and  compare 
it  with  the  same  hound  as,  with  gleaming  eyes 
and  straining  muscles,  it  runs  upon  a  breast-high 
scent — such  was  the  change  in  Holmes  since  the 
morning.  He  was  a  different  man  to  the  limp 
and  lounging  figure  in  the  mouse-coloured 
dressing-gown  who  had  prowled  so  restlessly  only 
a  few  hours  before  round  the  fog-girt  room. 

"There  is  material  here.  There  is  scope,"  said 
he.  "I  am  dull  indeed  not  to  have  understood  its 
possibilities." 

"Even  now  they  are  dark  to  me." 

"The  end  is  dark  to  me  also,  but  I  have  hold  of 
one  idea  which  may  lead  us  far.  The  man  met 
his  death  elsewhere,  and  his  body  was  on  the 
roof  of  a  carriage." 

"On  the  roof!" 

"Remarkable,  is  it  not?  But  consider  the  facts. 
Is  it  a  coincidence  that  it  is  found  at  the  very 
point  where  the  train  pitches  and  sways  as  it 
comes  round  on  the  points?  Is  not  that  the  place 
where  an  object  upon  the  roof  might  be  expected 
to  fall  off?  The  points  would  affect  no  object 
inside  the  train.  Either  the  body  fell  from  the 
roof,  or  a  very  curious  coincidence  has  occurred. 
But  now  consider  the  question  of  the  blood.  Of 
course,  there  was  no  bleeding  on  the  line  if  the 

[149] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


body  had  bled  elsewhere.  Each  fact  is  sugges- 
tive in  itself.  Together  they  have  a  cumulative 
force." 

"And  the  ticket,  too!"  I  cried. 

"Exactly.  We  could  not  explain  the  absence 
of  a  ticket.  This  would  explain  it.  Everything 
fits  together." 

"But  suppose  it  were  so,  we  are  still  as  far  as 
ever  from  unravelling  the  mystery  of  his  death. 
Indeed,  it  becomes  not  simpler,  but  stranger." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Holmes,  thoughtfully;  "per- 
haps." He  relapsed  into  a  silent  reverie,  which 
lasted  until  the  slow  train  drew  up  at  last  in 
Woolwich  Station.  There  he  called  a  cab  and 
drew  Mycroft's  paper  from  his  pocket. 

"We  have  quite  a  little  round  of  afternoon 
calls  to  make,"  said  he.  "I  think  that  Sir  James 
Walter  claims  our  first  attention." 

The  house  of  the  famous  official  was  a  fine 
villa  with  green  lawns  stretching  down  to  the 
Thames.  As  we  reached  it  the  fog  was  lifting, 
and  a  thin,  watery  sunshine  was  breaking 
through.  A  butler  answered  our  ring. 

"Sir  James,  sir!"  said  he,  with  solemn  face. 
"Sir  James  died  this  morning." 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  Holmes,  in  amazement. 
"How  did  he  die?" 

"Perhaps  you  would  care  to  step  in,  sir,  and 
see  his  brother,  Colonel  Valentine?" 

"Yes,  we  had  best  do  so." 
[150] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

We  were  ushered  into  a  dim-lit  drawing-room, 
where  an  instant  later  we  were  joined  by  a  very 
tall,  handsome,  light-bearded  man  of  fifty,  the 
younger  brother  of  the  dead  scientist.  His 
wild  eyes,  stained  cheeks,  and  unkempt  hair  all 
spoke  of  the  sudden  blow  which  had  fallen  upon 
the  household.  He  was  hardly  articulate  as  he 
spoke  of  it. 

"It  was  this  horrible  scandal,"  said  he.  "My 
brother,  Sir  James,  was  a  man  of  very  sensitive 
honour,  and  he  could  not  survive  such  an  affair. 
It  broke  his  heart.  He  was  always  so  proud  of 
the  efficiency  of  his  department,  and  this  was  a 
crushing  blow." 

"We  had  hoped  that  he  might  have  given  us 
some  indications  which  would  have  helped  us  to 
clear  the  matter  up." 

"I  assure  you  that  it  was  all  a  mystery  to  him 
as  it  is  to  you  and  to  all  of  us.  He  had  already 
put  all  his  knowledge  at  the  disposal  of  the  police. 
Naturally,  he  had  no  doubt  that  Cadogan  West 
was  guilty.  But  all  the  rest  was  inconceivable." 

"You  cannot  throw  any  new  light  upon  the 
affair?" 

"I  know  nothing  myself  save  what  I  have  read 
or  heard.  I  have  no  desire  to  be  discourteous, 
but  you  can  understand,  Mr.  Holmes,  that  we 
are  much  disturbed  at  present,  and  I  must  ask 
you  to  hasten  this  interview  to  an  end." 

"This  is  indeed  an  unexpected  development," 

[151] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


said  my  friend  when  we  had  regained  the  cab. 
"I  wonder  if  the  death  was  natural,  or  whether 
the  poor  old  fellow  killed  himself!  If  the  latter, 
may  it  be  taken  as  some  sign  of  self-reproach  for 
duty  neglected?  We  must  leave  that  question 
to  the  future.  Now  we  shall  turn  to  the  Cado- 
gan  Wests." 

A  small  but  well-kept  house  in  the  outskirts 
of  the  town  sheltered  the  bereaved  mother.  The 
old  lady  was  too  dazed  with  grief  to  be  of  any 
use  to  us,  but  at  her  side  was  a  white-faced  young 
lady,  who  introduced  herself  as  Miss  Violet  West- 
bury,  the  fiancee  of  the  dead  man,  and  the  last 
to  see  him  upon  that  fatal  night. 

"I  cannot  explain  it,  Mr.  Holmes,"  she  said. 
"I  have  not  shut  an  eye  since  the  tragedy,  think- 
ing, thinking,  thinking,  night  and  day,  what  the 
true  meaning  of  it  can  be.  Arthur  was  the  most 
single-minded,  chivalrous,  patriotic  man  upon 
earth.  He  would  have  cut  his  right  hand  off  be- 
fore he  would  sell  a  State  secret  confided  to  his 
keeping.  It  is  absurd,  impossible,  preposterous 
to  anyone  who  knew  him." 

"But  the  facts,  Miss  Westbury?" 
"Yes,  yes;  I  admit  I  cannot  explain  them." 
"Was  he  in  any  want  of  money?" 
"No;  his  needs  were  very  simple  and  his  salary 
ample.    He  had  saved  a  few  hundreds,  and  we 
were  to  marry  at  the  New  Year," 
[152] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE- PARTINGTON   PLANS 

"No  signs  of  any  mental  excitement?  Come, 
Miss  Westbury,  be  absolutely  frank  with  us." 

The  quick  eye  of  my  companion  had  noted 
some  change  in  her  manner.  She  coloured  and 
hesitated. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  at  last.  "I  had  a  feeling  that 
there  was  something  on  his  mind." 

"For  long?" 

"Only  for  the  last  week  or  so.  He  was  thought- 
ful and  worried.  Once  I  pressed  him  about  it. 
He  admitted  that  there  was  something,  and  that 
it  was  concerned  with  his  official  life.  'It  is  too 
serious  for  me  to  speak  about,  even  to  you,'  said 
he.  I  could  get  nothing  more." 

Holmes  looked  grave. 

"Go  on,  Miss  Westbury.  Even  if  it  seems  to 
tell  against  him,  go  on.  We  cannot  say  what  it 
may  lead  to." 

"Indeed  I  have  nothing  more  to  tell.  Once  or 
twice  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  was  on  the  point 
of  telling  me  something.  He  spoke  one  evening 
of  the  importance  of  the  secret,  and  I  have  some 
recollection  that  he  said  that  no  doubt  foreign 
spies  would  pay  a  great  deal  to  have  it." 

My  friend's  face  grew  graver  still. 

"Anything  else?" 

•  "He  said  that  we  were  slack  about  such  mat- 
ters— that  it  would  be  easy  for  a  traitor  to  get 
the  plans." 

[153] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"Was  it  only  recently  that  he  made  such  re- 
marks?" 

"Yes,  quite  recently." 

"Now  tell  us  of  that  last  evening." 

"We  were  to  go  to  the  theatre.  The  fog  was 
so  thick  that  a  cab  was  useless.  We  walked,  and 
our  way  took  us  close  to  the  office.  Suddenly  he 
darted  away  into  the  fog." 

"Without  a  word?" 

"He  gave  an  exclamation;  that  was  all.  I 
waited  but  he  never  returned.  Then  I  walked 
home.  Next  morning,  after  the  office  opened, 
they  came  to  inquire.  About  twelve  o'clock  we 
heard  the  terrible  news.  Oh,  Mr.  Holmes  if  you 
could  only,  only  save  his  honour !  It  was  so  much 
to  him." 

Holmes  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"Come,  Watson,"  said  he,  "our  ways  lie  else- 
where. Our  next  station  must  be  the  office  from 
which  the  papers  were  taken. 

"It  was  black  enough  before  against  this  young 
man,  but  our  inquiries  make  it  blacker,"  he  re- 
marked, as  the  cab  lumbered  off.  "His  coming 
marriage  gives  a  motive  for  the  crime.  He  natu- 
rally wanted  money.  The  idea  was  in  his  head, 
since  he  spoke  about  it.  He  nearly  made  the  girl 
an  accomplice  in  the  treason  by  telling  her  his 
plans.  It  is  all  very  bad." 

"But  surely,  Holmes,  character  goes  for  some- 
thing? Then,  again,  why  should  he  leave  the 
[154] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

girl  in  the  street  and  dart  away  to  commit  a 
felony?" 

"Exactly!  There  are  certainly  objections. 
But  it  is  a  formidable  case  which  they  have  to 
meet." 

Mr.  Sidney  Johnson,  the  senior  clerk,  met  us 
at  the  office,  and  received  us  with  that  respect 
which  my  companion's  card  always  commanded. 
He  was  a  thin,  gruff,  bespectacled  man  of  middle 
age,  his  cheeks  haggard,  and  his  hands  twitching 
from  the  nervous  strain  to  which  he  had  been 
subjected. 

"It  is  bad,  Mr.  Holmes,  very  bad !  Have  you 
heard  of  the  death  of  the  chief?" 

"We  h&,ve  just  come  from  his  house." 

"The  place  is  disorganized.  The  chief  dead, 
Cadogan  West  dead,  our  papers  stolen.  And 
yet,  when  we  closed  our  door  on  Monday  evening 
we  were  as  efficient  an  office  as  any  in  the  Gov- 
ernment service.  Good  God,  it's  dreadful  to 
think  of!  That  West,  of  all  men,  should  have 
done  such  a  thing!" 

"You  are  sure  of  his  guilt,  then?" 

"I  can  see  no  other  way  out  of  it.  And  yet 
I  would  have  trusted  him  as  I  trust  myself." 

"At  what  hour  was  the  office  closed  on  Mon- 
day?" 

"At  five." 

"Did  you  close  it?" 

"I  am  always  the  last  man  out." 

[155] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"Where  were  the  plans?" 

"In  that  safe.    I  put  them  there  myself." 

"Is  there  no  watchman  to  the  building?" 

"There  is;  but  he  has  other  departments  to 
look  after  as  well.  He  is  an  old  soldier  and  a 
most  trustworthy  man.  He  saw  nothing  that 
evening.  Of  course,  the  fog  was  very  thick." 

"Suppose  that  Cadogan  West  wished  to  make 
his  way  into  the  building  after  hours;  he  would 
need  three  keys,  would  he  not,  before  he  could 
reach  the  papers?" 

"Yes,  he  would.  The  key  of  the  outer  door, 
the  key  of  the  office,  and  the  key  of  the  safe." 

"Only  Sir  James  Walter  and  you  had  those 
keys?"  ' 

"I  had  no  keys  of  the  doors — only  of  the  safe." 

"Was  Sir  James  a  man  who  was  orderly  in  his 
habits?" 

"Yes,  I  think  he  was.  I  know  that  so  far  as 
those  three  keys  are  concerned  he  kept  them  on 
the  same  ring.  I  have  often  seen  them  there." 

"And  that  ring  went  with  him  to  London?" 

"He  said  so." 

"And  your  key  never  left  your  possession?" 

"Never." 

"Then  West,  if  he  is  the  culprit,  must  have 

had  a  duplicate.    And  yet  none  was  found  upon 

his  body.     One  other  point:  if  a  clerk  in  this 

office  desired  to  sell  the  plans,  would  it  not  be 

[156] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

simpler  to  copy  the  plans  for  himself  than  to  take 
the  originals,  as  was  actually  done?" 

"It  would  take  considerable  technical  knowl- 
edge to  copy  the  plans  in  an  effective  way." 

"But  I  suppose  either  Sir  James,  or  you,  or 
West  had  that  technical  knowledge?" 

"No  doubt  we  had,  but  I  beg  you  won't  try 
to  drag  me  into  the  matter,  Mr.  Holmes.  What 
is  the  use  of  our  speculating  in  this  way  when 
the  original  plans  were  actually  found  on  West?" 

"Well,  it  is  certainly  singular  that  he  should 
run  the  risk  of  taking  originals  if  he  could  safely 
have  taken  copies,  which  would  have  equally 
served  his  turn." 

"Singular,  no  doubt — and  yet  he  did  so." 

"Every  inquiry  in  this  case  reveals  something 
inexplicable.  Now  there  are  three  papers  still 
missing.  They  are,  as  I  understand,  the  vital 
ones." 

"Yes,  that  is  so." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  anyone  holding 
these  three  papers,  and  without  the  seven  others, 
could  construct  a  Bruce-Partington  submarine?" 

"I  reported  to  that  effect  to  the  Admiralty. 
But  to-day  I  have  been  over  the  drawings  again, 
and  I  am  not  so  sure  of  it.  The  double  valves 
with  the  automatic  self-adjusting  slots  are  drawn 
in  one  of  the  papers  which  have  been  returned. 
Until  the  foreigners  had  invented  that  for  them- 

[157] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


selves  they  could  not  make  the  boat.  Of  course, 
they  might  soon  get  over  the  difficulty." 

"But  the  three  missing  drawings  are  the  most 
important?" 

"Undoubtedly." 

"I  think,  with  your  permission,  I  will  now  take 
a  stroll  round  the  premises.  I  do  not  recall  any 
other  question  which  I  desired  to  ask." 

He  examined  the  lock  of  the  safe,  the  door 
of  the  room,  and  finally  the  iron  shutters  of  the 
window.  It  was  only  when  we  were  on  the 
lawn  outside  that  his  interest  was  strongly  ex- 
cited. There  was  a  laurel  bush  outside  the  win- 
dow, and  several  of  the  branches  bore  signs  of 
having  been  twisted  or  snapped.  He  examined 
them  carefully  with  his  lens,  and  then  some  dim 
and  vague  marks  upon  the  earth  beneath.  Fi- 
nally he  asked  the  chief  clerk  to  close  the  iron 
shutters,  and  he  pointed  out  to  me  that  they 
hardly  met  in  the  centre,  and  that  it  would  be 
possible  for  anyone  outside  to  see  what  was 
going  on  within  the  room. 

"The  indications  are  ruined  by  the  three  days' 
delay.  They  may  mean  something  or  nothing. 
Well,  Watson,  I  do  not  think  that  Woolwich 
can  help  us  further.  It  is  a  small  crop  which  we 
have  gathered.  Let  us  see  if  we  can  do  better 
in  London." 

Yet  we  added  one  more  sheaf  to  our  harvest 
before  we  left  Woolwich  Station.  The  clerk  in 
[158] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

the  ticket  office  was  able  to  say  with  confidence 
that  he  saw  Cadogan  West — whom  he  knew  well 
by  sight — upon  the  Monday  night,  and  that  he 
went  to  London  by  the  8.15  to  London  Bridge. 
He  was  alone,  and  took  a  single  third-class  ticket. 
The  clerk  was  struck  at  the  time  by  his  excited 
and  nervous  manner.  So  shaky  was  he  that  he 
could  hardly  pick  up  his  change,  and  the  clerk 
had  helped  him  with  it.  A  reference  to  the  time- 
table showed  that  the  8.15  was  the  first  train 
which  it  was  possible  for  West  to  take  after  he 
had  left  the  lady  about  7.30. 

"Let  us  reconstruct,  Watson,"  said  Holmes, 
after  half  an  hour  of  silence.  "I  am  not  aware 
that  in  all  our  joint  researches  we  have  ever  had 
a  case  which  was  more  difficult  to  get  at.  Every 
fresh  advance  which  we  make  only  reveals  a  fresh 
ridge  beyond.  And  yet  we  have  surely  made 
some  appreciable  progress. 

"The  effect  of  our  inquiries  at  Woolwich  has 
in  the  main  been  against  young  Cadogan  West; 
but  the  indications  at  the  window  would  lend 
themselves  to  a  more  favourable  hypothesis. 
Let  us  suppose,  for  example,  that  he  had  been 
approached  by  some  foreign  agent.  It  might 
have  been  done  under  such  pledges  as  would 
have  prevented  him  from  speaking  of  it,  and 
yet  would  have  affected  his  thoughts  in  the 
direction  indicated  by  his  remarks  to  his  fiancee. 
Very  good.  We  will  now  suppose  that  as  he 

[159] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


went  to  the  theatre  with  the  young  lady  he  sud- 
denly, in  the  fog,  caught  a  glimpse  of  this  same 
agent  going  in  the  direction  of  the  office.  He 
was  an  impetuous  man,  quick  in  his  decisions. 
Everything  gave  way  to  his  duty.  He  followed 
the  man,  reached  the  window,  saw  the  abstraction 
of  the  documents,  and  pursued  the  thief.  In 
this  way  we  get  over  the  objection  that  no  one 
would  take  originals  when  he  could  make  copies. 
This  outsider  had  to  take  originals.  So  far  it 
holds  together." 

"What  is  the  next  step  ?" 

"Then  we  come  into  difficulties.  One  would 
imagine  that  under  such  circumstances  the  first 
act  of  young  Cadogan  West  would  be  to  seize 
the  villain  and  raise  the  alarm.  Why  did  he  not 
do  so?  Could  it  have  been  an  official  superior 
who  took  the  papers?  That  would  explain 
West's  conduct.  Or  could  the  chief  have  given 
West  the  slip  in  the  fog,  and  West  started  at 
once  to  London  to  head  him  off  from  his  own 
rooms,  presuming  that  he  knew  where  the  rooms 
were?  The  call  must  have  been  very  pressing, 
since  he  left  his  girl  standing  in  the  fog,  and  made 
no  effort  to  communicate  with  her.  Our  scent 
runs  cold  here,  and  there  is  a  vast  gap  between 
either  hypothesis  and  the  laying  of  West's  body, 
with  seven  papers  in  his  pocket,  on  the  roof  of  a 
Metropolitan  train.  My  instinct  now  is  to  work 
from  the  other  end.  If  My  croft  has  given  us 
[160] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

the  list  of  addresses  we  may  be  able  to  pick  our 
man,  and  follow  two  tracks  instead  of  one." 

Surely  enough,  a  note  awaited  us  at  Baker 
Street.  A  Government  messenger  had  brought 
it  post-haste.  Holmes  glanced  at  it  and  threw 
it  over  to  me. 

"There  are  numerous  small  fry,  but  few  who 
would  handle  so  big  an  affair.  The  only  men 
worth  considering  are  Adolph  Meyer,  of  13, 

(Great  George  Street,  Westminster:  Louis  La 
Rothiere,  of  Campden  Mansions,  Netting  Hill; 
and  Hugo  Oberstein,  13,  Caulfield  Gardens, 
Kensington.  The  latter  was  known  to  be  in 
town  on  Monday,  and  is  now  reported  as  having 
left.  Glad  to  hear  you  have  seen  some  light. 
The  Cabinet  awaits  your  final  report  with  the 
utmost  anxiety.  Urgent  representations  have 
arrived  from  the  very  highest  quarter.  The 
whole  force  of  the  State  is  at  your  back  if  you 
should  need  it.— MYCROFT." 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Holmes,  smiling,  "that  all 
the  Queen's  horses  and  all  the  Queen's  men  can- 
not avail  in  this  matter."  He  had  spread  out  his 
big  map  of  London,  and  leaned  eagerly  over  it. 
"Well,  well,"  said  he  presently,  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  satisfaction,  "things  are  turning  a  little 
in  our  direction  at  last.  Why,  Watson,  I  do 
honestly  believe  that  we  are  going  to  pull  it  off 

[161] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


after  all."  He  slapped  me  on  the  shoulder  with 
a  sudden  burst  of  hilarity.  "I  am  going  out 
now.  It  is  only  a  reconnaissance.  I  will  do 
nothing  serious  without  my  trusted  comrade  and 
biographer  at  my  elbow.  Do  you  stay  here,  and 
the  odds  are  that  you  will  see  me  again  in  an 
hour  or  two.  If  time  hangs  heavy  get  foolscap 
and  a  pen,  and  begin  your  narrative  of  how  we 
saved  the  State." 

I  felt  some  reflection  of  his  elation  in  my  own 
mind,  for  I  knew  well  that  he  would  not  depart 
so  far  from  his  usual  austerity  of  demeanour  un- 
less there  was  good  cause  for  exultation.  All  the 
long  November  evening  I  waited,  filled  with  im- 
patience for  his  return.  At  last,  shortly  after 
nine  o'clock  there  arrived  a  messenger  with  a 
note: 

"Am  dining  at  Goldini's  Restaurant,  Glou- 
cester Road,  Kensington.  Please  come  at  once 
and  join  me  there.  Bring  with  you  a  jemmy,  a 
dark  lantern,  a  chisel,  and  a  revolver. — S.  H." 

It  was  a  nice  equipment  for  a  respectable  citi- 
zen to  carry  through  the  dim,  fog-draped  streets. 
I  stowed  them  all  discretely  away  in  my  overcoat, 
and  drove  straight  to  the  address  given.  There 
sat  my  friend  at  a  little  round  table  near  the  door 
of  the  garish  Italian  restaurant. 

"Have  you  had  something  to  eat?  Then  join 
[162] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

me  in  a  coffee  and  cura9oa.  Try  one  of  the  pro- 
prietor's cigars.  They  are  less  poisonous  than 
one  would  expect.  Have  you  the  tools?" 

"They  are  here,  in  my  overcoat." 

"Excellent.  Let  me  give  you  a  short  sketch  of 
what  I  have  done,  with  some  indication  of  what 
we  are  about  to  do.  Now  it  must  be  evident  to 
you,  Watson,  that  this  young  man's  body  was 
placed  on  the  roof  of  the  train.  That  was  clear 
from  the  instant  that  I  determined  the  fact  that 
it  was  from  the  roof,  and  not  from  a  carriage, 
that  he  had  fallen." 

"Could  it  not  have  been  dropped  from  a 
bridge?" 

"I  should  say  it  was  impossible.  If  you  ex- 
amine the  roofs  you  will  find  that  they  are  slightly 
rounded,  and  there  is  no  railing  round  them. 
Therefore,  we  can  say  for  certain  that  young 
Cadogan  West  was  placed  on  it." 

"How  could  he  be  placed  there?" 

"That  was  the  question  which  we  had  to  an- 
swer. There  is  only  one  possible  way.  You  are 
aware  that  the  underground  runs  clear  of  tunnels 
at  some  points  in  the  West-end.  I  had  a  vague 
memory  that  as  I  have  travelled  by  it  I  have  oc- 
casionally seen  windows  just  above  my  head. 
Now,  suppose  that  a  train  halted  under  such 
a  window,  would  there  be  any  difficulty  in  laying 
a  body  upon  the  roof?" 

"It  seems  most  improbable." 

[163] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"We  must  fall  back  upon  the  old  axiom  that 
when  all  other  contingencies  fail,  whatever  re- 
mains, however  improbable,  must  be  the  truth. 
Here  all  other  contingencies  have  failed.  When 
I  found  that  the  leading  international  agent,  who 
had  just  left  London,  lived  in  a  row  of  houses 
which  abutted  upon  the  Underground,  I  was  so 
pleased  that  you  were  a  little  astonished  at  my 
sudden  frivolity." 

"Oh,  that  was  it,  was  it?" 

"Yes,  that  was  it.  Mr.  Hugo  Oberstein,  of 
13,  Caulfield  Gardens,  had  become  my  objective. 
I  began  my  operations  at  Gloucester  Road  Sta- 
tion, where  a  very  helpful  official  walked  with  me 
along  the  track,  and  allowed  me  to  satisfy  myself, 
not  only  that  the  back-stair  windows  of  Caulfield 
Gardens  open  on  the  line,  but  the  even  more 
essential  fact  that,  owing  to  the  intersection  of 
one  of  the  larger  railways,  the  Underground 
trains  are  frequently  held  motionless  for  some 
minutes  at  that  very  spot." 

"Splendid,  Holmes!     You  have  got  it!" 

"So  far — so  far,  Watson.  We  advance,  but 
the  goal  is  afar.  Well,  having  seen  the  back  of 
Caulfield  Gardens,  I  visited  the  front  and  satis- 
fled  myself  that  the  bird  was  indeed  flown.  It  is 
a  considerable  house,  unfurnished,  so  far  as  I 
could  judge,  in  the  upper  rooms.  Oberstein 
lived  there  with  a  single  valet,  who  was  probably 
a  confederate  entirely  in  his  confidence.  We 
[164] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

must  bear  in  mind  that  Oberstein  has  gone  to 
the  Continent  to  dispose  of  his  booty,  but  not 
with  any  idea  of  flight;  for  he  had  no  reason  to 
fear  a  warrant,  and  the  idea  of  an  amateur  domi- 
ciliary visit  would  certainly  never  occur  to  him. 
Yet  that  is  precisely  what  we  are  about  to  make." 

"Could  we  not  get  a  warrant  and  legalise  it?" 

"Hardly  on  the  evidence." 

"What  can  we  hope  to  do?" 

"We  cannot  tell  what  correspondence  may  be 
there." 

"I  don't  like  it,  Holmes." 

"My  dear  fellow,  you  shall  keep  watch  in  the 
street.  I'll  do  the  criminal  part.  It's  not  a 
time  to  stick  at  trifles.  Think  of  Mycroft's 
note,  of  the  Admiralty,  the  Cabinet,  the  exalted 
person  who  waits  for  news.  We  are  bound  to 

go." 

My  answer  was  to  rise  from  the  table. 

"You  are  right,  Holmes.  We  are  bound  to 
go." 

He  sprang  up  and  shook  me  by  the  hand. 

"I  knew  you  would  not  shrink  at  the  last,"  said 
he,  and  for  a  moment  I  saw  something  in  his 
eyes  which  was  nearer  to  tenderness  than  I  had 
ever  seen.  The  next  instant  he  was  his  master- 
ful, practical  self  once  more. 

"It  is  nearly  half  a  mile,  but  there  is  no  hurry. 
Let  us  walk,"  said  he.  "Don't  drop  the  instru- 

[165] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


ments,  I  beg.  Your  arrest  as  a  suspicious  char- 
acter would  be  a  most  unfortunate  complication." 

Caulfield  Gardens  was  one  of  those  lines  of 
flat-faced,  pillared,  and  porticoed  houses  which 
are  so  prominent  a  product  of  the  middle  Victo- 
rian epoch  in  the  West-end  of  London.  Next 
door  there  appeared  to  be  a  children's  party, 
for  the  merry  buzz  of  young  voices  and  the  clat- 
ter of  a  piano  resounded  through  the  night.  The 
fog  still  hung  about  and  screened  us  with  its 
friendly  shade.  Holmes  had  lit  his  lantern  and 
flashed  it  upon  the  massive  door. 

"This  is  a  serious  proposition,"  said  he.  "It 
is  certainly  bolted  as  well  as  locked.  We  would 
do  better  in  the  area.  There  is  an  excellent  arch- 
way down  yonder  in  case  a  too  zealous  police- 
man should  intrude.  Give  me  a  hand,  Watson, 
and  I'll  do  the  same  for  you." 

A  minute  later  we  were  both  in  the  area. 
Hardly  had  we  reached  the  dark  shadows  before 
the  step  of  the  policeman  was  heard  in  the  fog 
above.  As  its  soft  rhythm  died  away,  Holmes 
set  to  work  upon  the  lower  door.  I  saw  him 
stoop  and  strain  until  with  a  sharp  crash  it  flew 
open.  We  sprang  through  into  the  dark  pas- 
sage, closing  the  area  door  behind  us.  Holmes 
led  the  way  up  the  curving,  uncarpeted  stair.  His 
little  fan  of  yellow  light  shone  upon  a  low  win- 
dow. 

"Here  we  are,  Watson — this  must  be  the  one." 
[166] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

He  threw  it  open,  and  as  he  did  so  there  was  a 
low,  harsh  murmur,  growing  steadily  into  a  loud 
roar  as  a  train  dashed  past  us  in  the  dark- 
ness. Holmes  swept  his  light  along  the  win- 
dow-sill. It  was  thickly  coated  with  soot  from 
the  passing  engines,  but  the  black  surface  was 
blurred  and  rubbed  in  places. 

"You  can  see  where  they  rested  the  body. 
Halloa,  Watson!  what  is  this?  There  can  be 
no  doubt  that  it  is  a  blood  mark."  He  was  point- 
ing to  faint  discolorations  along  the  woodwork  of 
the  window.  "Here  it  is  on  the  stone  of  the  stair 
also.  The  demonstration  is  complete.  Let  us 
stay  here  until  a  train  stops." 

We  had  not  long  to  wait.  The  very  next  train 
roared  from  the  tunnel  as  before,  but  slowed  in 
the  open,  and  then,  with  a  creaking  of  brakes, 
pulled  up  immediately  beneath  us.  It  was  not 
four  feet  from  the  window-ledge  to  the  roof 
of  the  carriages.  Holmes  softly  closed  the  win- 
dow. 

"So  far  we  are  justified,"  said  he.  "What  do 
you  think  of  it,  Watson?" 

"A  masterpiece.  You  have  never  risen  to 
a  greater  height." 

"I  cannot  agree  with  you  there.  From  the 
moment  that  I  conceived  the  idea  of  the  body 
being  upon  the  roof,  which  surely  was  not  a  very 
abstruse  one,  all  the  rest  was  inevitable.  If  it 
were  not  for  the  grave  interests  involved  the 

,[167] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


affair  up  to  this  point  would  be  insignificant. 
Our  difficulties  are  still  before  us.  But  perhaps 
we  may  find  something  here  which  may  help 
us." 

We  had  ascended  the  kitchen  stair  and  en- 
tered the  suite  of  rooms  upon  the  first  floor.  One 
was  a  dining-room,  severely  furnished  and  con- 
taining nothing  of  interest.  A  second  was  a 
bedroom,  which  also  drew  blank.  The  remain- 
ing room  appeared  more  promising,  and  my  com- 
panion settled  down  to  a  systematic  examination. 
It  was  littered  with  books  and  papers,  and  was 
evidently  used  as  a  study.  Swiftly  and  method- 
ically Holmes  turned  over  the  contents  of  drawer 
after  drawer  and  cupboard  after  cupboard,  but 
no  gleam  of  success  came  to  brighten  his  aus- 
tere face.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  he  was  no  fur- 
ther than  when  he  started. 

"The  cunning  dog  has  covered  his  tracks," 
said  he.  "He  has  left  nothing  to  incriminate 
him.  His  dangerous  correspondence  has  been 
destroyed  or  removed.  This  is  our  last  chance." 

It  was  a  small  tin  cash-box  which  stood  upon 
the  writing-desk.  Holmes  prised  it  open  with 
his  chisel.  Several  rolls  of  paper  were  within, 
covered  with  figures  and  calculations,  without 
any  note  to  show  to  what  they  referred.  The  re- 
curring words,  "Water  pressure"  and  "Pressure 
to  the  square  inch"  suggested  some  possible  rela- 
tion to  a  submarine.  Holmes  tossed  them  all  im- 
[168] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

patiently  aside.  There  only  remained  an  en- 
velope with  some  small  newspaper  slips  inside  it. 
He  shook  them  out  on  the  table,  and  at  once  I 
saw  by  his  eager  face  that  his  hopes  had  been 
raised. 

"What's  this,  Watson?  Eh?  What's  this? 
Record  of  a  series  of  messages  in  the  advertise- 
ments of  a  paper.  Daily  Telegraph  agony  col- 
umn by  the  print  and  paper.  Right-hand  top 
corner  of  a  page.  No  dates — but  messages  ar- 
range themselves.  This  must  be  the  first : 

"  'Hoped  to  hear  sooner.  Terms  agreed  to. 
Write  fully  to  address  given  on  card. — Pierrot.' 

"Next  comes:  'Too  complex  for  description. 
Must  have  full  report.  Stuff  awaits  you  when 
goods  delivered. — Pierrot/ 

"Then  comes  'Matter  presses.  Must  with- 
draw offer  unless  contract  completed.  Make  ap- 
pointment by  letter.  Will  confirm  by  advertise- 
ment.— Pierrot.' 

"Finally:  'Monday  night  after  nine.  Two 
taps.  Only  ourselves.  Do  not  be  so  suspicious. 
Payment  in  hard  cash  when  goods  delivered. — 
Pierrot.' 

"A  fairly  complete  record,  Watson!  If  we 
could  only  get  at  the  man  at  the  other  end!"  He 
sat  lost  in  thought,  tapping  his  fingers  on  the 
table.  Finally  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Well,  perhaps  it  won't  be  so  difficult  after  all. 
There  is  nothing  more  to  be  done  here,  Watson. 

[169] 


HIS  LAST   BOW 


I  think  we  might  drive  round  to  the  offices  of 
the  Daily  Telegraph,  and  so  bring  a  good  day's 
work  to  a  conclusion." 

Mycroft  Holmes  and  Lestrade  had  come 
round  by  appointment  after  breakfast  next  day 
and  Sherlock  Holmes  had  recounted  to  them  our 
proceedings  of  the  day  before.  The  profes- 
sional shook  his  head  over  our  confessed  bur- 
glary. 

"We  can't  do  these  things  in  the  force,  Mr. 
Holmes,"  said  he.  "No  wonder  you  get  results 
that  are  beyond  us.  But  some  of  these  days 
you'll  go  too  far,  and  you'll  find  yourself  and 
your  friend  in  trouble." 

"For  England,  home  and  beauty — eh,  Wat- 
son? Martyrs  on  the  altar  of  our  country.  But 
what  do  you  think  of  it,  Mycroft?" 

"Excellent,  Sherlock!  Admirable!  But  what 
use  will  you  make  of  it?" 

Holmes  picked  up  the  Daily  Telegraph  which 
lay  upon  the  table. 

"Have  you  seen  Pierrot's  advertisement  to- 
day?" 

"What!    Another  one?" 

"Yes,  here  it  is:  'To-night.  Same  hour. 
Same  place.  Two  taps.  Most  vitally  impor- 
tant. Your  own  safety  at  stake. — Pierrot.'  " 

"By   George!"   cried  Lestrade.     "If  he  an- 
swers that  we've  got  him!" 
[170] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

"That  was  my  idea  when  I  put  it  in.  I  think 
if  you  could  both  make  it  convenient  to  come 
with  us  about  eight  o'clock  to  Caulfield  Gardens 
we  might  possibly  get  a  little  nearer  to  a  solu- 
tion." 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  characteristics  of 
Sherlock  Holmes  was  his  power  of  throwing  his 
brain  out  of  action  and  switching  all  his  thoughts 
on  to  lighter  things  whenever  he  had  convinced 
himself  that  he  could  no  longer  work  to  advan- 
tage. I  remember  that  during  the  whole  of  that 
memorable  day  he  lost  himself  in  a  monograph 
which  he  had  undertaken  upon  the  Polyphonic 
Motets  of  Lassus.  For  my  own  part  I  had  none 
of  this  power  of  detachment,  and  the  day,  in  con- 
sequence, appeared  to  be  interminable.  The 
great  national  importance  of  the  issue,  the  sus- 
pense in  high  quarters,  the  direct  nature  of  the 
experiment  which  we  were  trying — all  combined 
to  work  upon  my  nerve.  It  was  a  relief  to  me 
when  at  last,  after  a  light  dinner,  we  set  out 
upon  our  expedition.  Lestrade  and  Mycroft 
met  us  by  appointment  at  the  outside  of  Glou- 
cester Road  Station.  The  area  door  of  Ober- 
stein's  house  had  been  left  open  the  night  before, 
and  it  was  necessary  for  me,  as  Mycroft  Holmes 
absolutely  and  indignantly  declined  to  climb  the 
railings,  to  pass  in  and  open  the  hall  door.  By 

[171] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


nine  o'clock  we  were  all  seated  in  the  study,  wait- 
ing patiently  for  our  man. 

An  hour  passed  and  yet  another.  When  eleven 
struck,  the  measured  beat  of  the  great  church 
clock  seemed  to  sound  the  dirge  of  our  hopes. 
Lestrade  and  Mycroft  were  fidgeting  in  their 
seats  and  looking  twice  a  minute  at  their  watches. 
Holmes  sat  silent  and  composed,  his  eyelids  half 
shut,  but  every  sense  on  the  alert.  He  raised  his 
head  with  a  sudden  jerk. 

"He  is  coming,"  said  he. 

There  had  been  a  furtive  step  past  the  door. 
Now  it  returned.  We  heard  a  shuffling  sound 
'outside,  and  then  two  sharp  taps  with  the 
knocker.  Holmes  rose,  motioning  to  us  to  re- 
main seated.  The  gas  in  the  hall  was  a  mere 
point  of  light.  He  opened  the  outer  door,  and 
then  as  a  dark  figure  slipped  past  him  he  closed 
and  fastened  it.  "This  way!"  we  heard  him  say, 
and  a  moment  later  our  man  stood  before  us. 
Holmes  had  followed  him  closely,  and  as  the  man 
turned  with  a  cry  of  surprise  and  alarm  he  caught 
him  by  the  collar  and  threw  him  back  into  the 
room.  Before  our  prisoner  had  recovered  his 
balance  the  door  was  shut  and  Holmes  standing 
with  his  back  against  it.  The  man  glared  round 
him,  staggered,  and  fell  senseless  upon  the  floor. 
With  the  shock,  his  broad-brimmed  hat  flew  from 
his  head,  his  cravat  slipped  down  from  his  lips, 
and  there  was  the  long  light  beard  and  the  soft, 
[172] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON   PLANS 

handsome  delicate  features  of  Colonel  Valentine 
Walter. 

Holmes  gave  a  whistle  of  surprise. 

"You  can  write  me  down  an  ass  this  time, 
Watson,"  said  he.  "This  was  not  the  bird  that 
I  was  looking  for." 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Mycroft  eagerly. 

"The  younger  brother  of  the  late  Sir  James 
Walter,  the  head  of  the  Submarine  Department. 
Yes,  yes ;  I  see  the  fall  of  the  cards.  He  is  com- 
ing to.  I  think  that  you  had  best  leave  his  exam- 
ination to  me." 

We  had  carried  the  prostrate  body  to  the  sofa. 
Now  our  prisoner  sat  up,  looked  round  him  with 
a  horror-stricken  face,  and  passed  his  hand  over 
his  forehead,  like  one  who  cannot  believe  his  own 
senses. 

"What  is  this?"  he  asked.  "I  came  here  to 
visit  Mr.  Oberstein." 

"Everything  is  known,  Colonel  Walter,"  said 
Holmes.  "How  an  English  gentleman  could  be- 
have in  such  a  manner  is  beyond  my  compre- 
hension. But  your  whole  correspondence  and 
relations  with  Oberstein  are  within  our  knowl- 
edge. So  also  are  the  circumstances  connected 
with  the  death  of  young  Cadogan  West.  Let 
me  advise  you  to  gain  at  least  the  small  credit 
for  repentance  and  confession,  since  there  are 
still  some  details  which  we  can  only  learn  from 
your  lips." 

[173] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


The  man  groaned  and  sank  his  face  in  his 
hands.  We  waited,  but  he  was  silent. 

"I  can  assure  you/'  said  Holmes,  "that  every 
essential  is  already  known.  We  know  that  you 
were  pressed  for  money;  that  you  took  an  im- 
press of  the  keys  which  your  brother  held;  and 
that  you  entered  into  a  correspondence  with 
Oberstein,  who  answered  your  letters  through 
the  advertisement  columns  of  the  Daily  Tele- 
graph. We  are  aware  that  you  went  down  to 
the  office  in  the  fog  on  Monday  night,  but  that 
you  were  seen  and  followed  by  young  Cadogan 
West,  who  had  probably  some  previous  reason 
to  suspect  you.  He  saw  your  theft,  but  could 
not  give  the  alarm,  as  it  was  just  possible  that 
you  were  taking  the  papers  to  your  brother  in 
London.  Leaving  all  his  private  concerns,  like 
the  good  citizen  that  he  was,  he  followed  you 
closely  in  the  fog,  and  kept  at  your  heels  until 
you  reached  this  very  house.  There  he  inter- 
vened, and  then  it  was,  Colonel  Walter,  that  to 
treason  you  added  the  more  terrible  crime  of 
murder." 

"I  did  not!  I  did  not!  Before  God  I  swear 
that  I  did  not !"  cried  our  wretched  prisoner. 

"Tell  us  then,  how  Cadogan  West  met  his  end 
before  you  laid  him  upon  the  roof  of  a  railway 
carriage." 

"I  will.  I  swear  to  you  that  I  will.  I  did  the 
rest.  I  confess  it.  It  was  just  as  you  say.  A 
[174] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PARTINGTON  PLANS 

Stock  Exchange  debt  had  to  be  paid.  I  needed 
the  money  badly.  Oberstein  offered  ine  >five 
thousand.  It  was  to  save  myself  from  ruin. 
But  as  to  murder,  I  am  as  innocent  as  you." 

"What  happened,  then?" 

"He  had  his  suspicions  before,  and  he  fol- 
lowed me  as  you  describe.  I  never  knew  it  until 
I  was  at  the  very  door.  It  was  thick  fog,  and 
one  could  not  see  three  yards.  I  had  given  two 
taps  and  Oberstein  had  come  to  the  door.  The 
young  man  rushed  up  and  demanded  to  know 
what  we  were  about  to  do  with  the  papers. 
Oberstein  had  a  short  life-preserver.  He  always 
carried  it  with  him.  As  West  forced  his  way 
after  us  into  the  house  Oberstein  struck  him  on 
the  head.  The  blow  was  a  fatal  one.  He  was 
dead  within  five  minutes.  There  he  lay  in  the 
hall,  and  we  were  at  our  wits'  end  what  to  do. 
Then  Oberstein  had  this  idea  about  the  trains 
which  halted  under  his  back  window.  But  first 
he  examined  the  papers  which  I  had  brought. 
He  said  that  three  of  them  were  essential,  and 
that  he  must  keep  them.  'You  cannot  keep 
them/  said  I.  'There  will  be  a  dreadful  row 
at  Woolwich  if  they  are  not  returned.'  'I  must 
keep  them,'  said  he,  'for  they  are  so  technical  that 
it  is  impossible  in  the  time  to  make  copies.'  'Then 
they  must  all  go  back  together  to-night,'  said  I. 
He  thought  for  a. little,  and  then  he  cried  out 
that  he  had  it.  'Three  I  will  keep,'  said  he. 

[175] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


'The  others  we  will  stuff  into  the  pocket  of  this 
young  man.  When  he  is  found  the  whole  busi- 
ness will  assuredly  be  put  to  his  account/  I 
could  see  no  other  way  out  of  it,  so  we  did  as  he 
suggested.  We  waited  half  an  hour  at  the  win- 
dow before  a  train  stopped.  It  was  so  thick 
that  nothing  could  be  seen,  and  we  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  lowering  West's  body  on  to  the  train. 
That  was  the  end  of  the  matter  so  far  as  I  was 
concerned." 

"And  your  brother?" 

"He  said  nothing,  but  he  had  caught  me  once 
with  his  keys,  and  I  think  that  he  suspected.  I 
read  in  his  eyes  that  he  suspected.  As  you  know, 
he  never  held  up  his  head  again." 

There  was  silence  in  the  room.  It  was  broken 
by  Mycroft  Holmes. 

"Can  you  not  make  reparation?  It  would 
ease  your  conscience,  and  possibly  your  punish- 
ment." 

"What  reparation  can  I  make?" 

"Where  is  Oberstein  with  the  papers?" 

"I  do  not  know." 

"Did  he  give  you  no  address?" 

"He  said  that  letters  to  the  Hotel  du  Louvre, 
Paris,  would  eventually  reach  him." 

"Then  reparation  is  still  within  your  power," 
said  Sherlock  Holmes. 

"I  will  do  anything  I  can.  I  owe  this  fellow 
[176] 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  BRUCE-PAETINGTON   PLANS 

no  particular  good-will.     He  has  been  my  ruin 
and  my  downfall." 

"Here  are  paper  and  pen.  Sit  at  this  desk 
and  write  to  my  dictation.  Direct  the  envelope 
to  the  address  given.  That  is  right.  Now  the 
letter:  'Dear  Sir, — With  regard  to  our  trans- 
action, you  will  no  doubt  have  observed  by  now 
that  one  essential  detail  is  missing.  I  have  a 
tracing  which  will  make  it  complete.  This  has 
involved  me  in  extra  trouble,  however,  and  I 
must  ask  you  for  a  further  advance  of  five  hun- 
dred pounds.  I  will  not  trust  it  to  the  post,  nor 
will  I  take  anything  but  gold  or  notes.  I  would 
come  to  you  abroad,  but  it  would  excite  remark 
if  I  left  the  country  at  present.  Therefore  I 
shall  expect  to  meet  you  in  the  smoking-room  of 
the  Charing  Cross  Hotel  at  noon  on  Saturday. 
Remember  that  only  English  notes,  or  gold,  will 
be  taken.'  That  will  do  very  well.  I  shall  be 
very  much  surprised  if  it  does  not  fetch  our  man." 

And  it  did!  It  is  a  matter  of  history — that 
secret  history  of  a  nation  which  is  often  so  much 
more  intimate  and  interesting  than  its  public 
chronicles — that  Oberstein,  eager  to  complete  the 
coup  of  his  lifetime,  came  to  the  lure  and  was 
safely  engulfed  for  fifteen  years  in  a  British 
prison.  In  his  trunk  were  found  the  invaluable 
Bruce-Partington  plans,  which  he  had  put  up  for 
auction  in  all  the  naval  centres  of  Europe. 

[177] 


HIS  LAST   BOW 


Colonel  Walter  died  in  prison  towards  the  end 
of  the  second  year  of  his  sentence.  As  to  Holmes, 
he  returned  refreshed  to  his  monograph  upon 
the  Polyphonic  Motets  of  Lassus,  which  has  since 
been  printed  for  private  circulation,  and  is  said 
by  experts  to  be  the  last  word  upon  the  subject. 
Some  weeks  afterwards  I  learned  incidentally 
that  my  friend  spent  a  day  at  Windsor,  whence 
he  returned  with  a  remarkably  fine  emerald  tie- 
pin.  When  I  asked  him  if  he  had  bought  it,  he 
answered  that  it  was  a  present  from  a  certain 
gracious  lady  in  whose  interests  he  had  once  been 
fortunate  enough  to  carry  out  a  small  commis- 
sion. He  said  no  more;  but  I  fancy  that  I 
could  guess  at  that  lady's  august  name,  and  I 
have  little  doubt  that  the  emerald  pin  will  for 
ever  recall  to  my  friend's  memory  the  adventure 
of  the  Bruce-Partington  plans. 


[178] 


V 

THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  DYING 
DETECTIVE 


MRS.  HUDSON,  the  landlady  of  Sherlock 
Holmes,  was  a  long-suffering  woman. 
Not  only  was  her  first-floor  flat  invaded  at  all 
hours  by  throngs  of  singular  and  often  undesira- 
ble characters,  but  her  remarkable  lodger  showed 
an  eccentricity  and  irregularity  in  his  life  which 
must  have  sorely  tried  her  patience.  His  incred- 
ible untidiness,  his  addiction  to  music  at  strange 
hours,  his  occasional  revolver  practice  within 
doors,  his  weird  and  often  malodorous  scientific 
experiments,  and  the  atmosphere  of  violence  and 
danger  which  hung  around  him  made  him  the 
very  worst  tenant  in  London.  On  the  other 
hand,  his  payments  were  princely.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  the  house  might  have  been  purchased 
at  the  price  which  Holmes  paid  for  his  rooms 
during  the  years  that  I  was  with  him. 

The  landlady  stood  in  the  deepest  awe  of  him, 
and  never  dared  to  interfere  with  him,  however 

[179] 


HIS   LAST    BOW 


outrageous  his  proceedings  might  seem.  She 
was  fond  of  him,  too,  for  he  had  a  remarkable 
gentleness  and  courtesy  in  his  dealings  with 
women.  He  disliked  and  distrusted  the  sex, 
but  he  was  always  a  chivalrous  opponent. 
Knowing  how  genuine  was  her  regard  for 
him,  I  listened  earnestly  to  her  story  when 
she  came  to  my  rooms  in  the  second  year 
of  my  married  life  and  told  me  of  the  sad  condi- 
tion to  which  my  poor  friend  was  reduced. 

"He's  dying,  Dr.  Watson,"  said  she.  "For 
three  days  he  has  been  sinking,  and  I  doubt  if 
he  will  last  the  day.  He  would  not  let  me  get 
a  doctor.  This  morning  when  I  saw  his  bones 
sticking  out  of  his  face  and  his  great  bright 
eyes  looking  at  me  I  could  stand  no  more  of  it. 
'With  your  leave  or  without  it,  Mr.  Holmes,  I 
am  going  for  a  doctor  this  very  hour,'  said  I. 
'Let  it  be  Watson,  then,'  said  he.  I  wouldn't 
waste  an  hour  in  coming  to  him,  sir,  or  you  may 
not  see  him  alive." 

I  was  horrified,  for  I  had  heard  nothing  of  his 
illness.  I  need  not  say  that  I  rushed  for  my  coat 
and  my  hat.  As  we  drove  back  I  asked  for  the 
details. 

"There  is  little  I  can  tell  you,  sir.  He  has  been 
working  at  a  case  down  at  Rotherhithe,  in  an 
alley  near  the  river,  and  he  has  brought  this  ill- 
ness back  with  him.  He  took  to  his  bed  on 
Wednesday  afternoon  and  has  never  moved  since. 
[180] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DYING   DETECTIVE 

For  these  three  days  neither  food  nor  drink  has 
passed  his  lips." 

"Good  God!  Why  did  you  not  call  in  a  doc- 
tor?" 

"He  wouldn't  have  it,  sir.  You  know  how 
masterful  he  is.  I  didn't  dare  to  disobey  him. 
But  he's  not  long  for  this  world,  as  you'll  see  for 
yourself  the  moment  that  you  set  eyes  on  him." 

He  was  indeed  a  deplorable  spectacle.  In 
the  dim  light  of  a  foggy  November  day  the  sick- 
room was  a  gloomy  spot,  but  it  was  that  gaunt, 
wasted  face  staring  at  me  from  the  bed  which 
sent  a  chill  to  my  heart.  His  eyes  had  the  bright- 
ness of  fever,  there  was  a  hectic  flush  upon  either 
cheek,  and  dark  crusts  clung  to  his  lips ;  the  thin 
hands  upon  the  coverlet  twitched  incessantly,  his 
voice  was  croaking  and  spasmodic.  He  lay  list- 
lessly as  I  entered  the  room,  but  the  sight  of  me 
brought  a  gleam  of  recognition  to  his  eyes. 

"Well,  Watson,  we  seem  to  have  fallen  upon 
evil  days,"  said  he,  in  a  feeble  voice,  but  with 
something  of  his  old  carelessness  of  manner. 

"My  dear  fellow!"  I  cried,  approaching  him. 

"Stand  back!  Stand  right  back!"  said  he, 
with  the  sharp  imperiousness  which  I  had  asso- 
ciated only  with  moments  of  crisis.  "If  you  ap- 
proach me,  Watson,  I  shall  order  you  out  of  the 
house." 

"But  why?" 

"Because  it  is  my  desire.  Is  that  not  enough?" 

[181] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


Yes,  Mrs.  Hudson  was  right.  He  was  more 
masterful  than  ever.  It  was  pitiful,  however, 
to  see  his  exhaustion. 

"I  only  wished  to  help,"  I  explained. 

"Exactly!  You  will  help  best  by  doing  what 
you  are  told." 

"Certainly,  Holmes." 

He  relaxed  the  austerity  of  his  manner. 

"You  are  not  angry?"  he  asked,  gasping  for 
breath. 

Poor  devil,  how  could  I  be  angry  when  I  saw 
him  lying  in  such  a  plight  before  me? 

"It's  for  your  own  sake,  Watson,"  he  croaked. 

"For  my  sake?" 

"I  know  what  is  the  matter  with  me.  It  is  a 
coolie  disease  from  Sumatra — a  thing  that  the 
Dutch  know  more  about  than  we,  though  they 
have  made  little  of  it  up  to  date.  One  thing  only 
is  certain.  It  is  infallibly  deadly,  and  it  is  hor- 
ribly contagious." 

He  spoke  now  with  a  feverish  energy,  the  long 
hands  twitching  and  jerking  as  he  motioned  me 
away. 

"Contagious  by  touch,  Watson — that's  it,  by 
touch.  Keep  your  distance  and  all  is  well." 

"Good  heavens,  Holmes!  Do  you  suppose 
that  such  a  consideration  weighs  with  me  for  an 
instant?  It  would  not  affect  me  in  the  case  of  a 
stranger.  Do  you  imagine  it  would  prevent  me 
from  doing  my  duty  to  so  old  a  friend?" 
[182] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DYING  DETECTIVE 

Again  I  advanced,  but  he  repulsed  me  with  a 
look  of  furious  anger. 

"If  you  will  stand  there  I  will  talk.  If  you 
do  not  you  must  leave  the  room." 

I  have  so  deep  a  respect  for  the  extraordinary 
qualities  of  Holmes  that  I  have  always  deferred 
to  his  wishes,  even  when  I  least  understood  them. 
But  now  all  my  professional  instincts  were 
aroused.  Let  him  be  my  master  elsewhere,  I  at 
least  was  his  in  a  sick-room. 

"Holmes,"  said  I,  "you  are  not  yourself.  A 
sick  man  is  but  a  child,  and  so  I  will  treat  you. 
Whether  you  like  it  or  not,  I  will  examine  your 
symptoms  and  treat  you  for  them." 

He  looked  at  me  with  venomous  eyes. 

"If  I  am  to  have  a  doctor  whether  I  will  or 
not,  let  me  at  least  have  someone  in  whom  I  have 
confidence,"  said  he. 

"Then  you  have  none  in  me?" 

"In  your  friendship,  certainly.  But  facts  are 
facts,  Watson,  and  after  all  you  are  only  a  gen- 
eral practitioner  with  very  limited  experience  and 
mediocre  qualifications.  It  is  painful  to  have  to 
say  these  things,  but  you  leave  me  no  choice." 

I  was  bitterly  hurt. 

"Such  a  remark  is  unworthy  of  you,  Holmes. 
It  shows  me  very  clearly  the  state  of  your  own 
nerves.  But  if  you  have  no  confidence  in  me  I 
would  not  intrude  my  services.  Let  me  bring 
Sir  Jasper  Meek  or  Penrose  Fisher,  or  any  of 

[183] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


the  best  men  in  London.  But  someone  you  must 
have,  and  that  is  final.  If  you  think  that  I  am 
going  to  stand  here  and  see  you  die  without  either 
helping  you  myself  or  bringing  anyone  else  to 
help  you,  then  you  have  mistaken  your  man." 

"You  mean  well,  Watson,"  said  the  sick  man, 
with  something  between  a  sob  and  a  groan.  "Shall 
I  demonstrate  your  own  ignorance?  What  do 
you  know,  pray,  of  Tapanuli  fever?  What  do 
you  know  of  the  black  Formosa  corruption?" 

"I  have  never  heard  of  either." 

"There  are  many  problems  of  disease,  many 
strange  pathological  possibilities,  in  the  East, 
Watson."  He  paused  after  each  sentence  to 
collect  his  failing  strength.  "I  have  learned  so 
much  during  some  recent  researches  which  have  a 
medico-criminal  aspect.  It  was  in  the  course  of 
them  that  I  contracted  this  complaint.  You  can 
do  nothing." 

"Possibly  not.  But  I  happen  to  know  that 
Dr.  Ainstree,  the  greatest  living  authority  upon 
tropical  disease,  is  now  in  London.  All  remon- 
strance is  useless,  Holmes.  I  am  going  this  in- 
stant to  fetch  him."  I  turned  resolutely  to  the 
door. 

Never  have  I  had  Lsuch  a  shock!  In  an  in- 
stant, with  a  tiger-spring,  the  dying  man  had 
intercepted  me.  I  heard  the  sharp  snap  of  a 
twisted  key.  The  next  moment  he  had  stag- 
[184] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DYING   DETECTIVE 

gered  back  to  his  bed,  exhausted  and  panting 
after  his  one  tremendous  outflame  of  energy. 

"You  won't  take  the  key  from  me  by  force, 
Watson.  I've  got  you,  my  friend.  Here  you 
are,  and  here  you  will  stay  until  I  will  otherwise. 
But  I'll  humour  you."  (All  this  in  little  gasps, 
with  terrible  struggles  for  breath  between.) 
"You've  only  my  own  good  at  heart.  Of  course 
I  know  that  very  well.  You  shall  have  your 
way,  but  give  me  time  to  get  my  strength.  Not 
now,  Watson,  not  now.  It's  four  o'clock.  At 
six  you  can  go." 

"This  is  insanity,  Holmes." 

"Only  two  hours,  Watson.  I  promise  you  will 
go  at  six.  Are  you  content  to  wait?" 

"I  seem  to  have  no  choice." 

"None  in  the  world,  Watson.  Thank  you,  I 
need  no  help  in  arranging  the  clothes.  You  will 
please  keep  your  distance.  Now,  Watson,  there 
is  one  other  condition  that  I  would  make.  You 
will  seek  help,  not  from  the  man  you  mention,  but 
from  the  one  that  I  choose." 

"By  all  means." 

"The  first  three  sensible  words  that  you  have 
uttered  since  you  entered  this  room,  Watson. 
You  will  find  some  books  over  there.  I  am  some- 
what exhausted;  I  wonder  how  a  battery  feels 
when  it  pours  electricity  into  a  non-conductor? 
At  six,  Watson,  we  resume  our  conversation." 

But  it  was  destined  to  be  resumed  long  before 

[185] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


that  hour,  and  in  circumstances  which  gave  me 
a  shock  hardly  second  to  that  caused  by  his 
spring  to  the  door.  I  had  stood  for  some  min- 
utes looking  at  the  silent  figure  in  the  bed.  His 
face  was  almost  covered  by  the  clothes  and  he 
appeared  to  be  asleep.  Then,  unable  to  settle 
down  to  reading,  I  walked  slowly  round  the  room, 
examining  the  pictures  of  celebrated  criminals 
with  which  every  wall  was  adorned.  Finally, 
in  my  aimless  perambulation,  I  came  to  the  man- 
telpiece. A  litter  of  pipes,  tobacco-pouches,  syr- 
inges, penknives,  revolver  cartridges,  and  other 
debris  was  scattered  over  it.  In  the  midst  of 
these  was  a  small  black  and  white  ivory  box  with 
a  sliding  lid.  It  was  a  neat  little  thing,  and  I  had 
stretched  out  my  hand  to  examine  it  more  closely, 
when 

It  was  a  dreadful  cry  that  he  gave — a  yell 
which  might  have  been  heard  down  the  street. 
My  skin  went  cold  and  my  hair  bristled  at  that 
horrible  scream.  As  I  turned  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  convulsed  face  and  frantic  eyes.  I  stood 
paralysed,  with  the  little  box  in  my  hand. 

"Put  it  down!  Down,  this  instant,  Watson — 
this  instant,  I  say!"  His  head  sank  back  upon 
the  pillow  and  he  gave  a  deep  sigh  of  relief  as  I 
replaced  the  box  upon  the  mantelpiece.  "I  hate 
to  have  my  things  touched,  Watson.  You  know 
that  I  hate  it.  You  fidget  me  beyond  endur- 
ance. You,  a  doctor — you  are  enough  to  drive 
[186] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF    THE   DYING   DETECTIVE 

a  patient  into  an  asylum.  Sit  down,  man,  and 
let  me  have  my  rest!" 

The  incident  left  a  most  unpleasant  impression 
upon  my  mind.  The  violent  and  causeless  ex- 
citement, followed  by  this  brutality  of  speech, 
so  far  removed  from  his  usual  suavity,  showed  me 
how  deep  was  the  disorganisation  of  his  mind. 
Of  all  ruins,  that  of  a  noble  mind  is  the  most  de- 
plorable. I  sat  in  silent  dejection  until  the  stip- 
ulated time  had  passed.  He  seemed  to  have 
been  watching  the  clock  a's  well  as  I,  for  it  was 
hardly  six  before  he  began  to  talk  with  the  same 
feverish  animation  as  before. 

"Now,  Watson,"  said  he.  "Have  you  any 
change  in  your  pocket?" 

"Yes." 

"Any  silver?" 

"A  good  deal." 

"How  many  half-crowns?" 

"I  have  five." 

"Ah,  too  few!  Too  few!  How  very  unfor- 
tunate, Watson !  However,  such  as  they  are  you 
can  put  them  in  your  watch-pocket.  And  all 
the  rest  of  your  money  in  your  left  trouser- 
pocket.  Thank  you.  It  will  balance  you  so 
much  better  like  that." 

This  was  raving  insanity.  He  shuddered,  and 
again  made  a  sound  between  a  cough  and  a  sob. 

"You  will  now  light  the  gas,  Watson,  but  you 
will  be  very  careful  that  not  for  one  instant  shall 

[187] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


it  be  more  than  half  on.  I  implore  you  to  be 
careful,  Watson.  Thank  you,  that  is  excellent. 
No,  you  need  not  draw  the  blind.  Now  you  will 
have  the  kindness  to  place  some  letters  and  pa- 
pers upon  this  table  within  my  reach.  Thank  you. 
Now  some  of  that  litter  from  the  mantelpiece. 
Excellent,  Watson!  There  is  a  sugar-tongs 
there.  Kindly  raise  that  small  ivory  box  with  its 
assistance.  Place  it  here  among  the  papers. 
Good !  You  can  now  go  and  fetch  Mr.  Culver- 
ton  Smith,  of  13,  Lower  Burke  Street." 

To  tell  the  truth,  my  desire  to  fetch  a  doctor 
had  somewhat  weakened,  for  poor  Holmes  was  so 
obviously  delirious  that  it  seemed  dangerous  to 
leave  him.  However,  he  was  as  eager  now  to 
consult  the  person  named  as  he  had  been  ob- 
stinate in  refusing. 

"I  never  heard  the  name,"  said  I. 

"Possibly  not,  my  good  Watson.  It  may  sur- 
prise you  to  know  that  the  man  upon  earth  who 
is  best  versed  in  this  disease  is  not  a  medical  man, 
but  a  planter.  Mr.  Culverton  Smith  is  a  well- 
known  resident  of  Sumatra,  now  visiting  Lon- 
don. An  outbreak  of  the  disease  upon  his  plan- 
tation, which  was  distant  from  medical  aid, 
caused  him  to  study  it  himself,  with  some  rather 
far-reaching  consequences.  He  is  a  very  me- 
thodical person,  and  I  did  not  desire  you  to  start 
before  six  because  I  was  well  aware  that  you 
would  not  find  him  in  his  study.  If  you  could 
[188] 


THE   ADVENTURE    OF   THE   DYING   DETECTIVE 

persuade  him  to  come  here  and  give  us  the  bene- 
fit of  his  unique  experience  of  this  disease,  the 
investigation  of  which  has  been  his  dearest  hobby, 
I  cannot  doubt  that  he  could  help  me." 

I  give  Holmes's  remarks  as  a  consecutive 
whole,  and  will  not  attempt  to  indicate  how  they 
were  interrupted  by  gaspings  for  breath  and 
those  clutchings  of  his  hands  which  indicated  the 
pain  from  which  he  was  suffering.  His  appear- 
ance had  changed  for  the  worse  during  the  few 
hours  that  I  had  been  with  him.  Those  hectic 
spots  were  more  pronounced,  the  eyes  shone  more 
brightly  out  of  darker  hollows,  and  a  cold  sweat 
glimmered  upon  his  brow.  He  still  retained, 
however,  the  jaunty  gallantry  of  his  speech.  To 
the  last  gasp  he  would  always  be  the  master. 

"You  will  tell  him  exactly  how  you  have  left 
me,"  said  he.  "You  will  convey  the  very  im- 
pression which  is  in  your  own  mind — a  dying 
man — a  dying  and  delirious  man.  Indeed,  I 
cannot  think  why  the  whole  bed  of  the  ocean  is 
not  one  solid  mass  of  oysters,  so  prolific  the  crea- 
tures seem.  Ah,  I  am  wandering !  Strange  how 
the  brain  controls  the  brain!  What  was  I  say- 
ing, Watson?" 

"My  directions  for  Mr.  Culverton  Smith." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  remember.  My  life  depends  upon 
it.  Plead  with  him,  Watson.  There  is  no  good 
feeling  between  us.  His  nephew,  Watson — I 
had  suspicions  of  foul  play  and  I  allowed  him  to 

[189] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


see  it.  The  boy  died  horribly.  He  has  a  grudge 
against  me.  You  will  soften  him,  Watson. 
Beg  him,  pray  him,  get  him  here  by  any  means. 
He  can  save  me — only  he!" 

"I  will  bring  him  in  a  cab,  if  I  have  to  carry 
him  down  to  it." 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  You  will 
persuade  him  to  come.  And  then  you  will  re- 
turn in  front  of  him.  Make  any  excuse  so  as 
not  to  come  with  him.  Don't  forget,  Watson. 
You  won't  fail  me.  You  never  did  fail  me.  No 
doubt  there  are  natural  enemies  which  limit  the 
increase  of  the  creatures.  You  and  I,  Watson, 
we  have  done  our  part.  Shall  the  world,  then,  be 
overrun  by  oysters?  No,  no;  horrible!  You'll 
convey  all  that  is  in  your  mind." 

I  left  him  full  of  the  image  of  this  magnificent 
intellect  babbling  like  a  foolish  child.  He  had 
handed  me  the  key,  and  with  a  happy  thought 
I  took  it  with  me  lest  he  should  lock  himself  in. 
Mrs.  Hudson  was  waiting,  trembling  and  weep- 
ing, in  the  passage.  Behind  me  as  I  passed 
from  the  flat  I  heard  Holmes 's  high,  thin  voice 
in  some  delirious  chant.  Below,  as  I  stood  whis- 
tling for  a  cab,  a  man  came  on  me  through  the  fog. 

"How  is  Mr.  Holmes,  sir?"  he  asked. 

It  was  an  old  acquaintance,  Inspector  Morton, 
of  Scotland  Yard,  dressed  in  unofficial  tweeds. 

"He  is  very  ill,"  I  answered. 

He  looked  at  me  in  a  most  singular  fashion. 
[190] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DYING   DETECTIVE 

Had  it  not  been  too  fiendish,  I  could  have  imag- 
ined that  the  gleam  of  the  fanlight  showed  exul- 
tation in  his  face. 

"I  heard  some  rumour  of  it,"  said  he0 

The  cab  had  driven  up,  and  I  left  hinio 

Lower  Burke  Street  proved  to  be  a  line  of 
fine  houses  lying  in  the  vague  borderland  between 
Netting  Hill  and  Kensington.  The  particular 
one  at  which  my  cabman  pulled  up  had  an  air 
of  smug  and  demure  respectability  in  its  old- 
fashioned  iron  railings,  its  massive  folding-door, 
and  its  shining  brasswork.  All  was  in  keeping 
with  a  solemn  butler  who  appeared  framed  in 
the  pink  radiance  of  a  tinted  electric  light  behind 
him. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Culverton  Smith  is  in.  Dr.  Wat- 
son! Very  good,  sir,  I  will  take  up  your  card." 

My  humble  name  and  title  did  not  appear  to 
impress  Mr.  Culverton  Smith.  Through  the 
half-open  door  I  heard  a  high,  petulant,  pene- 
trating voice. 

"Who  is  this  person?  What  does  he  want? 
Dear  me,  Staples,  how  often  have  I  said  that 
I  am  not  to  be  disturbed  in  my  hours  of  study?" 

There  came  a  gentle  flow  of  soothing  explana- 
tion from  the  butler. 

"Well,  I  won't  see  him,  Staples.  I  can't  have 
my  work  interrupted  like  this.  I  am  not  at 
home.  Say  so.  Tell  him  to  come  in  the  morn- 
ing if  he  really  must  see  me." 

[191] 


HIS   LAST    BOW 


Again  the  gentle  murmur. 

"Well,  well,  give  him  that  message.  He  can 
come  in  the  morning,  or  he  can  stay  away.  My 
work  must  not  be  hindered." 

I  thought  of  Holmes  tossing  upon  his  bed  of 
sickness,  and  counting  the  minutes,  perhaps,  until 
I  could  bring  help  to  him.  It  was  not  a  time 
to  stand  upon  ceremony.  His  life  depended 
upon  my  promptness.  Before  the  apologetic 
butler  had  delivered  his  message  I  had  pushed 
past  him  and  was  in  the  room. 

With  a  shrill  cry  of  anger  a  man  rose  from 
a  reclining  chair  beside  the  fire.  I  saw  a  great 
yellow  face,  coarse-grained  and  greasy,  with 
heavy,  double-chin,  and  two  sullen,  menacing 
grey  eyes  which  glared  at  me  from  under  tufted 
and  sandy  brows.  A  high  bald  head  had  a  small 
velvet  smoking-cap  poised  coquettishly  upon  one 
side  of  its  pink  curve.  The  skull  was  of  enor- 
mous capacity,  arid  yet,  as  I  looked  down  I  saw 
to  my  amazement  that  the  figure  of  the  man  was 
small  and  frail,  twisted  in  the  shoulders  and  back 
like  one  who  has  suffered  from  rickets  in  his 
childhood. 

"What's  this?"  he  cried,  in  a  high,  screaming 
voice.  "What  is  the  meaning  of  this  intrusion? 
Didn't  I  send  you  word  that  I  would  see  you 
to-morrow  morning?" 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  I,  "but  the  matter  cannot 

be  delayed.     Mr.  Sherlock  Holmes 

[192] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DYING   DETECTIVE 

The  mention  of  my  friend's  name  had  an  ex- 
traordinary effect  upon  the  little  man.  The  look 
of  anger  passed  in  an  instant  from  his  face.  His 
features  became  tense  and  alert. 

"Have  you  come  from  Holmes?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  just  left  him." 

"What  about  Holmes  ?     How  is  he  ?" 

"He  is  desperately  ill.  That  is  why  I  have 
come." 

The  man  motioned  me  to  a  chair,  and  turned 
to  resume  his  own.  As  he  did  so  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  face  in  the  mirror  over  the  man- 
telpiece. I  could  have  sworn  that  it  was  set  in  a 
malicious  and  abominable  smile.  Yet  I  per- 
suaded myself  that  it  must  have  been  some  nerv* 
ous  contraction  which  I  had  surprised,  for  he 
turned  to  me  an  instant  later  with  genuine  con- 
cern upon  his  features. 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  this,"  said  he.  "I  only 
know  Mr.  Holmes  through  some  business  deal- 
ings which  we  have  had,  but  I  have  every  respect 
for  his  talents  and  his  character.  He  is  an  ama- 
teur of  crime,  as  I  am  of  disease.  For  him  the 
villain,  for  me  the  microbe.  There  are  my  pris- 
ons," he  continued,  pointing  to  a  row  of  bottles 
and  jars  which  stood  upon  a  side  table.  "Among 
those  gelatine  cultivations  some  of  the  very  worst 
offenders  in  the  world  are  now  doing  time." 

"It  was  on  account  of  your  special  knowledge 
that  Mr.  Holmes  desired  to  see  you.  He  has  a 

[193] 


HIS   LAST    BOW 


high  opinion  of  you,  and  thought  that  you  were 
the  one  man  in  London  who  could  help  him." 

The  little  man  started,  and  the  jaunty  smok- 
ing-cap  slid  to  the  floor. 

"Why  ?"  he  asked.  "Why  should  Mr.  Holmes 
think  that  I  could  help  him  in  his  trouble?" 

"Because  of  your  knowledge  of  Eastern  dis- 
eases." 

"But  why  should  he  think  that  this  disease 
which  he  has  contracted  is  Eastern?" 

"Because,  in  some  professional  inquiry,  he  has 
been  working  among  Chinese  sailors  down  in  the 
docks." 

Mr.  Culverton  Smith  smiled  pleasantly  and 
picked  up  his  smoking-cap. 

"Oh,  that's  it— is  it?"  said  he.  "I  trust  the 
matter  is  not  so  grave  as  you  suppose.  How 
long  has  he  been  ill?" 

"About  three  days." 

"Is  he  delirious?" 

"Occasionally." 

"Tut,  tut!  This  sounds  serious.  It  would  be 
inhuman  not  to  answer  his  call.  I  very  much  re- 
sent any  interruption  to  my  work,  Dr.  Watson, 
but  this  case  is  certainly  exceptional.  I  will 
come  with  you  at  once." 

I  remembered  Holmes's  injunction. 

"I  have  another  appointment,"  said  I. 

"Very  good.  I  will  go  alone.  I  have  a  note 
[194] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DYING   DETECTIVE 

of  Mr.  Holmes's  address.  You  can  rely  upon 
my  being  there  within  half  an  hour  at  most." 

It  was  with  a  sinking  heart  that  I  re-entered 
Holmes's  bedroom.  For  all  that  I  knew  the 
worst  might  have  happened  in  my  absence.  To 
my  enormous  relief,  he  had  improved  greatly  in 
the  interval.  His  appearance  was  as  ghastly  as 
ever,  but  all  trace  of  delirium  had  left  him  and 
he  spoke  in  a  feeble  voice,  it  is  true,  but  with  even 
more  than  his  usual  crispness  and  lucidity. 

"Well,  did  you  see  him,  Watson?" 

"Yes;  he  is  coming." 

"Admirable,  Watson!  Admirable!  You  are 
the  best  of  messengers." 

"He  wished  to  return  with  me." 

"That  would  never  do,  Watson.  That  would 
be  obviously  impossible.  Did  he  ask  what  ailed 
me?" 

"I  told  him  about  the  Chinese  in  the  East-end." 

"Exactly!  Well,  Watson,  you  have  done  all 
that  a  good  friend  could.  You  can  now  disap- 
pear from  the  scene." 

"I  must  wait  and  hear  his  opinion,  Holmes." 

"Of  course  you  must.  But  I  have  reasons  to 
suppose  that  this  opinion  would  be  very  much 
more  frank  and  valuable  if  he  imagines  that  we 
are  alone.  There  is  just  room  behind  the  head 
of  my  bed,  Watson." 

"My  dear  Holmes!" 

"I  fear  there  is  no  alternative,  Watson.  The 

[195] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


room  does  not  lend  itself  to  concealment,  which  is 
as  well,  as  it  is  the  less  likely  to  arouse  suspicion. 
But  just  there,  Watson,  I  fancy  that  it  could  be 
done."  Suddenly  he  sat  up  with  a  rigid  intent- 
ness  upon  his  haggard  face.  "There  are  the 
wheels,  Watson.  Quick,  man,  if  you  love  me! 
And  don't  budge,  whatever  happens — whatever 
happens,  do  you  hear?  Don't  speak!  Don't 
move!  Just  listen  with  all  your  ears."  Then 
in  an  instant  his  sudden  access  of  strength  de- 
parted, and  his  masterful,  purposeful  talk  droned 
away  into  the  low,  vague  murmurings  of  a  semi- 
delirious  man. 

From  the  hiding-place  into  which  I  had  been  so 
swiftly  hustled  I  heard  the  footfalls  upon  the 
stair,  with  the  opening  and  the  closing  of  the  bed- 
room door.  Then,  to  my  surprise,  there  came 
a  long  silence,  broken  only  by  the  heavy 
breathings  and  gaspings  of  the  sick  man.  I 
could  imagine  that  our  visitor  was  standing  by 
the  bedside  and  looking  down  at  the  sufferer. 
At  last  that  strange  hush  was  broken. 

"Holmes !"  he  cried.  "Holmes !"  in  the  insist- 
ent tone  of  one  who  awakens  a  sleeper.  "Can't 
you  hear  me,  Holmes?"  There  was  a  rustling, 
as  if  he  had  shaken  the  sick  man  roughly  by  the 
shoulder. 

"Is  that  you,  Mr.  Smith?"  Holmes  whispered. 
"I  hardly  dared  hope  that  you  would  come." 

The  other  laughed. 
[196] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DYING   DETECTIVE 

"I  should  imagine  not,"  he  said.  "And  yet, 
you  see,  I  am  here.  Coals  of  fire,  Holmes — coals 
of  fire!" 

"It  is  very  good  of  you — very  noble  of  you. 
I  appreciate  your  special  knowledge." 

Our  visitor  sniggered. 

"You  do.  You  are,  fortunately,  the  only  man 
in  London  who  does.  Do  you  know  what  is  the 
matter  with  you?" 

"The  same,"  said  Holmes. 

"Ah!    You  recognise  the  symptoms?" 

"Only  too  well." 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  be  surprised,  Holmes.  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it  were  the  same.  A 
bad  look-out  for  you  if  it  is.  Poor  Victor  was  a 
dead  man  on  the  fourth  day — a  strong,  hearty 
young  fellow.  It  was  certainly,  as  you  said,  very 
surprising  that  he  should  have  contracted  an  out- 
of-the-way  Asiatic  disease  in  the  heart  of  London 
— a  disease,  too,  of  which  I  had  made  such  a  very 
special  study.  Singular  coincidence,  Holmes. 
Very  smart  of  you  to  notice  it,  but  rather  un- 
charitable to  suggest  that  it  was  cause  and  effect." 

"I  knew  that  you  did  it." 

"Oh,  you  did,  did  you?  Well,  you  couldn't 
prove  it,  anyhow.  But  what  do  you  think  of 
yourself  spreading  reports  about  me  like  that, 
and  then  crawling  to  me  for  help  the  moment  you 
are  in  trouble?  What  sort  of  a  game  is  that — 
eh?" 

[197] 


HIS    LAST    BOW 


I  heard  the  rasping,  laboured  breathing  of  the 
sick  man.  "Give  me  the  water!"  he  gasped. 

"You're  precious  near  your  end,  my  friend, 
but  I  don't  want  you  to  go  till  I  have  had  a  word 
with  you.  That's  why  I  give  you  water.  There, 
don't  slop  it  about !  That's  right.  Can  you  un- 
derstand what  I  say?" 

Holmes  groaned. 

"Do  what  you  can  for  me.  Let  bygones  be 
bygones,"  he  whispered.  "I'll  put  the  words  out 
of  my  head — I  swear  I  will.  Only  cure  me,  and 
I'll  forget  it." 

"Forget  what?" 

"Well,  about  Victor  Savage's  death.  You  as 
good  as  admitted  just  now  that  you  had  done  it. 
I'll  forget  it." 

"You  can  forget  it  or  remember  it,  just  as 
you  like.  I  don't  see  you  in  the  witness-box. 
Quite  another  shaped  box,  my  good  Holmes,  I 
assure  you.  It  matters  nothing  to  me  that  you 
should  know  how  my  nephew  died.  It's  not  him 
we  are  talking  about.  It's  you." 

"Yes,  yes." 

"The  fellow  who  came  for  me — I've  forgotten 
his  name — said  that  you  contracted  it  down  in 
the  East-end  among  the  sailors." 

"I  could  only  account  for  it  so." 

"You  are  proud  of  your  brains,  Holmes,  are 
you  not?  Think  yourself  smart,  don't  you? 
You  came  across  someone  who  was  smarter  this 
[198] 


THE   ADVENTURE    OF   THE   DYING   DETECTIVE 

time.  Now  cast  your  mind  back,  Holmes.  Can 
you  think  of  no  other  way  you  could  have  got 
this  thing?" 

"I  can't  think.  My  mind  is  gone.  For  Heav- 
en's sake  help  me !" 

"Yes,  I  will  help  you.  I'll  help  you  to  un- 
derstand just  where  you  are  and  how  you  got 
there.  I'd  like  you  to  know  before  you  die." 

"Give  me  something  to  ease  my  pain." 

"Painful,  is  it?  Yes,  the  coolies  used  to  do 
some  squealing  towards  the  end.  Takes  you  as 
cramp,  I  fancy." 

"Yes,  yes;  it  is  cramp." 

"Well,  you  can  hear  what  I  say,  anyhow.  Lis- 
ten now!  Can  you  remember  any  unusual  inci- 
dent in  your  life  just  about  the  time  your  symp- 
toms began?" 

"No,  no;  nothing." 

"Think  again." 

"I'm  too  ill  to  think." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  help  you.  Did  anything 
come  by  post?" 

"By  post?" 

"A  box  by  chance?" 

"I'm  fainting — I'm  gone!" 

"Listen,  Holmes!"  There  was  a  sound  as  if 
he  was  shaking  the  dying  man,  and  it  was  all 
that  I  could  do  to  hold  myself  quiet  in  my  hiding- 
place.  "You  must  hear  me.  You  shall  hear  me. 
Do  you  remember  a  box — an  ivory  box?  It 

[199] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


came  on  Wednesday.  You  opened  it — do  you 
remember?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  opened  it.  There  was  a  sharp 
spring  inside  it.  Some  joke " 

"It  was  no  joke,  as  you  will  find  to  your  cost. 
You  fool,  you  would  have  it  and  you  have  got  it. 
Who  asked  you  to  cross  my  path?  If  you  had 
left  me  alone  I  would  not  have  hurt  you." 

"I  remember,"  Holmes  gasped.  "The  spring! 
It  drew  blood.  This  box — this  on  the  table." 

"The  very  one,  by  George!  And  it  may  as 
well  leave  the  room  in  my  pocket.  There  goes 
your  last  shred  of  evidence.  But  you  have  the 
truth  now,  Holmes,  and  you  can  die  with  the 
knowledge  that  I  killed  you.  You  knew  too 
much  of  the  fate  of  Victor  Savage,  so  I  have 
sent  you  to  share  it.  You  are  very  near  your 
end,  Holmes.  I  will  sit  here  and  I  will  watch 
you  die." 

Holmes 's  voice  had  sunk  to  an  almost  inaudi- 
ble whisper. 

"What  is  that?"  said  Smith.  "Turn  up  the 
gas?  Ah,  the  shadows  begin  to  fall,  do  they? 
Yes,  I  will  turn  it  up,  that  I  may  see  you  the 
better."  He  crossed  the  room  and  the  light  sud- 
denly brightened.  "Is  there  any  other  little 
service  that  I  can  do  you,  my  friend?" 

"A  match  and  a  cigarette." 

I  nearly  called  out  in  my  joy  and  my  amaze- 
went.  He  was  speaking  in  his  natural  voice — a 
[200] 


THE   ADVENTURE  OF   THE  DYING   DETECTIVE 

little  weak,  perhaps,  but  the  very  voice  I  knew. 
There  was  a  long  pause,  and  I  felt  that  Culverton 
Smith  was  standing  in  silent  amazement  looking 
down  at  his  companion. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  this?"  I  heard  him 
say  at  last,  in  a  dry,  rasping  tone. 

"The  best  way  of  successfully  acting  a  part 
is  to  be  it,"  said  Holmes.  "I  give  you  my  word 
that  for  three  days  I  have  tasted  neither  food  nor 
drink  until  you  were  good  enough  to  pour  me 
out  that  glass  of  water.  But  it  is  the  tobacco 
which  I  find  most  irksome.  Ah,  here  are  some 
cigarettes."  I  heard  the  striking  of  a  match. 
"That  is  very  much  better.  Halloa!  halloa!  Do 
I  hear  the  step  of  a  friend?" 

There  were  footfalls  outside,  the  door  opened, 
and  Inspector  Morton  appeared. 

"All  is  in  order  and  this  is  your  man,"  said 
Holmes. 

The  officer  gave  the  usual  cautions. 

"I  arrest  you  on  the  charge  of  the  murder  of 
one  Victor  Savage,"  he  concluded. 

"And  you  might  add  of  the  attempted  murder 
of  one  Sherlock  Holmes,"  remarked  my  friend 
with  a  chuckle.  "To  save  an  invalid  trouble,  in- 
spector, Mr.  Culverton  Smith  was  good  enough 
to  give  our  signal  by  turning  up  the  gas.  By 
the  way,  the  prisoner  has  a  small  box  in  the  right- 
hand  pocket  of  his  coat  which  it  would  be  as  well 
to  remove.  Thank  you.  I  would  handle  it  gin- 

[201] 


HIS    LAST    BOW 


gerly  if  I  were  you.  Put  it  down  here.  It  may 
play  its  part  in  the  trial." 

There  was  a  sudden  rush  and  a  scuffle,  followed 
by  the  clash  of  iron  and  a  cry  of  pain. 

"You'll  only  get  yourself  hurt,"  said  the  in- 
spector. "Stand  still,  will  you?"  There  was 
the  click  of  the  closing  handcuffs. 

"A  nice  trap!"  cried  the  high,  snarling  voice. 
"It  will  bring  you  into  the  dock,  Holmes,  not 
me.  He  asked  me  to  come  here  to  cure  him.  I 
was  sorry  for  him  and  I  came.  Now  he  will  pre- 
tend, no  doubt,  that  I  have  said  anything  which 
he  may  invent  which  will  corroborate  his  insane 
suspicions.  You  can  lie  as  you  like,  -Holmes. 
My  word  is  always  as  good  as  yours." 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  Holmes.  "I  had  to- 
tally forgotten  him.  My  dear  Watson,  I  owe  you 
a  thousand  apologies.  To  think  that  I  should 
have  overlooked  you!  I  need  not  introduce  you 
to  Mr.  Culverton  Smith,  since  I  understand  that 
you  met  somewhat  earlier  in  the  evening.  Have 
you  the  cab  below?  I  will  follow  you  when  I  am 
dressed,  for  I  may  be  of  some  use  at  the  station. 

"I  never  needed  it  more,"  said  Holmes,  as  he 
refreshed  himself  with  a  glass  of  claret  and  some 
biscuits  in  the  intervals  of  his  toilet.  "However^ 
as  you  know,  my  habits  are  irregular,  and  such  a 
feat  means  less  to  me  than  to  most  men.  It  was 
very  essential  that  I  should  impress  Mrs.  Hud- 
son with  the  reality  of  my  condition,  since  she  was 
[202] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DYING   DETECTIVE 

to  convey  it  to  you,  and  you  in  turn  to  him.  You 
won't  be  offended,  Watson?  You  will  realise 
that  among  your  many  talents  dissimulation  finds 
no  place,  and  that  if  you  had  shared  my  secret 
you  would  never  have  been  able  to  impress  Smith 
with  the  urgent  necessity  of  his  presence,  which 
was  the  vital  point  of  the  whole  scheme.  Know- 
ing his  vindictive  nature,  I  was  perfectly  certain 
that  he  would  come  to  look  upon  his  handiwork." 

"But  your  appearance,  Holmes — your  ghastly 
face?" 

"Three  days  of  absolute  fast  does  not  improve 
one's  beauty,  Watson.  For  the  rest,  there  is 
nothing  which  a  sponge  may  not  cure.  With 
vaseline  upon  one's  forehead,  belladonna  in  one's 
eyes,  rouge  over  the  cheek-bones,  and  crusts  of 
beeswax  round  one's  lips,  a  very  satisfying  effect 
can  be  produced.  Malingering  is  a  subject  upon 
which  I  have  sometimes  thought  of  writing  a 
monograph.  A  little  occasional  talk  about  half- 
crowns,  oysters,  or  any  other  extraneous  subject 
produces  a  pleasing  effect  of  delirium." 

"But  why  would  you  not  let  me  near  you,  since 
there  was  in  truth  no  infection?" 

"Can  you  ask,  my  dear  Watson?  Do  you  im- 
agine that  I  have  no  respect  for  your  medical 
talents?  Could  I  fancy  that  your  astute  judg- 
ment would  pass  a  dying  man  who,  however 
weak,  had  no  rise  of  pulse  or  temperature?  At 
four  yards,  I  could  deceive  you.  If  I  failed  to  do 

[203] 


HIS   LAST    BOW 


so,  who  would  bring  my  Smith  within  my  grasp  ? 
No,  Watson,  I  would  not  touch  that  box.  You 
can  just  see  if  you  look  at  it  sideways  where  the 
sharp  spring  like  a  viper's  tooth  emerges  as  you 
open  it.  I  dare  say  it  was  by  some  such  device 
that  poor  Savage,  who  stood  between  this  mon- 
ster and  a  reversion,  was  done  to  death.  My 
correspondence,  however,  is,  as  you  know,  a  va- 
ried one,  and  I  am  somewhat  upon  my  guard 
against  any  packages  which  reach  me.  It  was 
clear  to  me,  however,  that  by  pretending  that  he 
had  really  succeeded  in  his  design  I  might  sur- 
prise a  confession.  That  pretence  I  have  carried 
out  with  the  thoroughness  of  the  true  artist. 
Thank  you,  Watson,  you  must  help  me  on  with 
my  coat.  When  we  have  finished  at  the  police- 
station  I  think  that  something  nutritious  at 
Simpson's  would  not  be  out  of  place." 


[204] 


VI 

THE     DISAPPEARANCE     OF     LADY 
FRANCES  CARFAX 


BUT  why  Turkish?"  asked  Mr.  Sherlock 
Holmes,  gazing  fixedly  at  my  boots.  I  was 
reclining  in  a  cane-backed  chair  at  the  moment, 
and  my  protruded  feet  had  attracted  his  ever- 
active  attention. 

"English,"  I  answered,  in  some  surprise.  "I 
got  them  at  Latimer's,  in  Oxford  Street." 

Holmes  smiled  with  an  expression  of  weary 
patience. 

"The  bath!"  he  said;  "the  bath!  Why  the 
relaxing  and  expensive  Turkish  rather  than  the 
invigorating  home-made  article?" 

"Because  for  the  last  few  days  I  have  been 
feeling  rheumatic  and  old.  A  Turkish  bath  is 
what  we  call  an  alterative  in  medicine — a  fresh 
starting-point,  a  cleanser  of  the  system. 

"By  the  way,  Holmes,"  I  added,  "I  have  no 
doubt  the  connection  between  my  boots  and  a 
Turkish  bath  is  a  perfectly  self-evident  one  to  a 

[205] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


logical  mind,  and  yet  I  should  be  obliged  to  you 
if  you  would  indicate  it." 

"The  train  of  reasoning  is  not  very  obscure, 
Watson,"  said  Holmes,  with  a  mischievous  twin- 
kle. "It  belongs  to  the  same  elementary  class  of 
deduction  which  I  should  illustrate  if  I  were  to 
ask  you  who  shared  your  cab  in  your  drive  this 
morning." 

"I  don't  admit  that  a  fresh  illustration  is  an  ex- 
planation," said  I,  with  some  asperity. 

"Bravo,  Watson!  A  very  dignified  and  logi- 
cal remonstrance.  Let  me  see,  what  were  the 
points?  Take  the  last  one  first — the  cab.  You 
observe  that  you  have  some  splashes  on  the  left 
sleeve  and  shoulder  of  your  coat.  Had  you  sat 
in  the  centre  of  a  hansom  you  would  probably 
have  had  no  splashes,  and  if  you  had  they  would 
certainly  have  been  symmetrical.  Therefore  it 
is  clear  that  you  sat  at  the  side.  Therefore  it  is 
equally  clear  that  you  had  a  companion." 

"That  is  very  evident." 

"Absurdly  commonplace,  is  it  not?" 

"But  the  boots  and  the  bath?" 

"Equally  childish.  You  are  in  the  habit  of 
doing  up  your  boots  in  a  certain  way.  I  see 
them  on  this  occasion  fastened  with  an  elaborate 
double  bow,  which  is  not  your  usual  method  of 
tying  them.  You  have,  therefore,  had  them  off. 
Who  has  tied  them?  A  bootmaker — or  the  boy 
at  the  bath.  It  is  unlikely  that  it  is  the  boot- 
[206] 


THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF    LADY    FRANCES    CARFAX 

maker,  since  your  boots  are  nearly  new.  Well, 
what  remains?  The  bath.  Absurd,  is  it  not? 
But,  for  all  that,  the  Turkish  bath  has  served  a 
purpose." 

"What  is  that?" 

"You  say  that  you  have  had  it  because  you  need 
a  change.  Let  me  suggest  that  you  take  one. 
How  would  Lausanne  do,  my  dear  Watson — 
first-class  tickets  and  all  expenses  paid  on  a 
princely  scale?" 

"Splendid!  But  why?" 

Holmes  leaned  back  in  his  armchair  and  took 
his  notebook  from  his  pocket. 

"One  of  the  most  dangerous  classes  in  the 
world,"  said  he,  "is  the  drifting  and  friendless 
woman.  She  is  the  most  harmless,  and  often  the 
most  useful  of  mortals,  but  she  is  the  inevitable 
inciter  of  crime  in  others.  She  is  helpless.  She 
is  migratory.  She  has  sufficient  means  to  take 
her  from  country  to  country  and  from  hotel  to 
hotel.  She  is  lost,  as  often  as  not,  in  a  maze  of 
obscure  pensions  and  boarding-houses.  She  is 
a  stray  chicken  in  a  world  of  foxes.  When  she  is 
gobbled  up  she  is  hardly  missed.  I  much  fear 
that  some  evil  has  come  to  the  Lady  Frances 
Carfax." 

I  was  relieved  at  this  sudden  descent  from  the 
general  to  the  particular.  Holmes  consulted  his 
notes. 

"Lady  Frances,"  he  continued,  "is  the  sole  sur- 

[207] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


vivor  of  the  direct  family  of  the  late  Earl  of  Ruf- 
ton.  The  estates  went,  as  you  may  remember, 
in  the  male  line.  She  was  left  with  limited  means, 
but  with  some  very  remarkable  old  Spanish  jewel- 
lery of  silver  and  curiously-cut  diamonds  to  which 
she  was  fondly  attached — too  attached,  for  she  re- 
fused to  leave  them  with  her  banker  and  always 
carried  them  about  with  her.  A  rather  pathetic 
figure,  the  Lady  Frances,  a  beautiful  woman, 
still  in  fresh  middle  age,  and  yet,  by  a  strange 
chance,  the  last  derelict  of  what  only  twenty  years 
ago  was  a  goodly  fleet." 

"What  has  happened  to  her,  then?" 

"Ah,  what  has  happened  to  the  Lady  Frances  ? 
Is  she  alive  or  dead?  There  is  our  problem. 
She  is  a  lady  of  precise  habits,  and  for  four  years 
it  has  been  her  invariable  custom  to  write  every 
second  week  to  Miss  Dobney,  her  old  governess, 
who  has  long  retired,  and  lives  in  Camberwell. 
It  is  this  Miss  Dobney  who  has  consulted  me. 
Nearly  five  weeks  have  passed  without  a  word. 
The  last  letter  was  from  the  Hotel  National  at 
Lausanne.  Lady  Frances  seems  to  have  left 
there  and  given  no  address.  The  family  are 
anxious,  and,  as  they  are  exceedingly  wealthy, 
no  sum  will  be  spared  if  we  can  clear  the  matter 
up." 

"Is  Miss  Dobney  the  only  source  of  informa- 
tion? Surely  she  had  other  correspondents?" 

"There  is  one  correspondent  who  is  a  sure 
[208] 


THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF    LADY    FRANCES    CARFAX 

draw,  Watson.  That  is  the  bank.  Single  ladies 
must  live,  and  their  pass-books  are  compressed 
diaries.  She  banks  at  Silvester's.  I  have  glanced 
over  her  account.  The  last  cheque  but  one  paid 
her  bill  at  Lausanne,  but  it  was  a  large  one  and 
probably  left  her  with  cash  in  hand.  Only  one 
cheque  has  been  drawn  since." 

"To  whom,  and  where?" 

"To  Miss  Marie  Devine.  There  is  nothing  to 
show  where  the  cheque  was  drawn.  It  was 
cashed  at  the  Credit  Lyonnais  at  Montpelier  less 
than  three  weeks  ago.  The  sum  was  fifty 
pounds." 

"And  who  is  Miss  Marie  Devine?" 

"That  also  I  have  been  able  to  discover.  Miss 
Marie  Devine  was  the  maid  of  Lady  Frances 
Carfax.  Why  she  should  have  paid  her  this 
cheque  we  have  not  yet  determined.  I  have  no 
doubt,  however,  that  your  researches  will  soon 
clear  the  matter  up." 

"My  researches !" 

"Hence  the  health-giving  expedition  to  Lau- 
sanne. You  know  that  I  cannot  possibly  leave 
London  while  old  Abrahams  is  in  such  mortal 
terror  of  his  life.  Besides,  on  general  principles 
it  is  best  that  I  should  not  leave  the  country. 
Scotland  Yard  feels  lonely  without  me,  and  it 
causes  an  unhealthy  excitement  among  the  crim- 
inal classes.  Go,  then,  my  dear  Watson,  and  if 
my  humble  counsel  can  ever  be  valued  at  so  ex- 

[209] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


travagant  a  rate  as  two  pence  a  word,  it  waits 
your  disposal  night  and  day  at  the  end  of  the 
Continental  wire." 

Two  days  later  found  me  at  the  National  Ho- 
tel at  Lausanne,  where  I  received  every  courtesy 
at  the  hands  of  M.  Moser,  the  well-known  man- 
ager. Lady  Frances,  as  he  informed  me,  had 
stayed  there  for  several  weeks.  She  had  been 
much  liked  by  all  who  met  her.  Her  age  was  not 
more  than  forty.  She  was  still  handsome,  and 
bore  every  sign  of  having  in  her  youth  been  a 
very  lovely  woman.  M.  Moser  knew  nothing  of 
any  valuable  jewellery,  but  it  had  been  remarked 
by  the  servants  that  the  heavy  trunk  in  the  lady's 
bedroom  was  always  scrupulously  locked.  Marie 
Devine,  the  maid,  was  as  popular  as  her  mistress. 
She  was  actually  engaged  to  one  of  the  head 
waiters  in  the  hotel,  and  there  was  no  difficulty 
in  getting  her  address.  It  was  11,  Rue  de  Tra- 
jan, Montpelier.  All  this  I  jotted  down,  and 
felt  that  Holmes  himself  could  not  have  been 
more  adroit  in  collecting  his  facts. 

Only  one  corner  still  remained  in  the  shadow. 
No  light  which  I  possessed  could  clear  up  the 
cause  for  the  lady's  sudden  departure.  She  was 
very  happy  at  Lausanne.  There  was  every  rea- 
son to  believe  that  she  intended  to  remain  for 
the  season  in  her  luxurious  rooms  overlooking 
the  lake.  And  yet  she  had  left  at  a  single  day's 
[210] 


THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF    LADY    FRANCES    CARFAX 

notice,  which  involved  her  in  the  useless  payment 
of  a  week's  rent.  Only  Jules  Vibart,  the  lover 
of  the  maid,  had  any  suggestion  to  offer.  He 
connected  the  sudden  departure  with  the  visit  to 
the  hotel  a  day  or  two  before  of  a  tall,  dark, 
bearded  man.  ffUn  sauvage — un  veritable  sauv- 
agel"  cried  Jules  Vibart.  The  man  had  rooms 
somewhere  in  the  town.  He  had  been  seen  talk- 
ing earnestly  to  madame  on  the  promenade  by 
the  lake.  Then  he  had  called.  She  had  refused 
to  see  him.  He  was  English,  but  of  his  name 
there  was  no  record.  Madame  had  left  the  place 
immediately  afterwards.  Jules  Vibart,  and, 
what  was  of  more  importance,  Jules  Vibart's 
sweetheart,  thought  that  this  call  and  this  depar- 
ture were  cause  and  effect.  Only  one  thing 
Jules  could  not  discuss.  That  was  the  reason 
why  Marie  had  left  her  mistress.  Of  that  he 
could  or  would  say  nothing.  If  I  wished  to 
know,  I  must  go  to  Montpelier  and  ask  her. 

So  ended  the  first  chapter  of  my  inquiry.  The 
second  was  devoted  to  the  place  which  Lady 
Frances  Carfax  had  sought  when  she  left  Lau- 
sanne. Concerning  this  there  had  been  some 
secrecy,  which  confirmed  the  idea  that  she  had 
gone  with  the  intention  of  throwing  someone  off 
her  track.  Otherwise  why  should  not  her  lug- 
gage have  been  openly  labelled  for  Baden?  Both 
she  and  it  reached  the  Rhenish  spa  by  some  cir- 
cuitous route.  Thus  much  I  gathered  from  the 

[211] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


manager  of  Cook's  local  office.  So  to  Baden  I 
went,  after  dispatching  to  Holmes  an  account  of 
all  my  proceedings,  and  receiving  in  reply  a  tele- 
gram of  half -humorous  commendation. 

At  Baden  the  track  was  not  difficult  to  follow. 
Lady  Frances  had  stayed  at  the  Englischer  Hof 
for  a  fortnight.  Whilst  there  she  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a  Dr.  Shlessinger  and  his  wife, 
a  missionary  from  South  America.  Like  most 
lonely  ladies,  Lady  Frances  found  her  comfort 
and  occupation  in  religion.  Dr.  Shlessinger's 
remarkable  personality,  his  whole-hearted  devo- 
tion, and  the  fact  that  he  was  recovering  from  a 
disease  contracted  in  the  exercise  of  his  apostolic 
duties,  affected  her  deeply.  She  had  helped  Mrs. 
Shlessinger  in  the  nursing  of  the  convalescent 
saint.  He  spent  his  day,  as  the  manager  de- 
scribed it  to  me,  upon  a  lounge-chair  on  the  ver- 
andah, with  an  attendant  lady  upon  either  side  of 
him.  He  was  preparing  a  map  of  the  Holy 
Land,  with  special  reference  to  the  kingdom  of 
the  Midianites,  upon  which  he  was  writing  a 
monograph.  Finally,  having  improved  much  in 
health,  he  and  his  wife  had  returned  to  London, 
and  Lady  Frances  had  started  thither  in  their 
company.  This  was  just  three  weeks  before,  and 
the  manager  had  heard  nothing  since.  As  to  the 
maid,  Marie,  she  had  gone  off  some  days  before- 
hand in  floods  of  tears,  after  informing  the  other 
maids  that  she  was  leaving  service  for  ever.  Dr. 
[212] 


THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF    LADY    FRANCES    CARFAX 

Shlessinger  had  paid  the  bill  of  the  whole  party 
before  his  departure. 

"By  the  way,"  said  the  landlord,  in  conclusion, 
"you  are  not  the  only  friend  of  Lady  Frances 
Carfax  who  is  inquiring  after  her  just  now.  Only 
a  week  or  so  ago  we  had  a  man  here  upon  the 
same  errand." 

"Did  he  give  a  name?"  I  asked. 

"None;  but  he  was  an  Englishman,  though  of 
an  unusual  type." 

"A  savage?"  said  I,  linking  my  facts  after  the 
fashion  of  my  illustrious  friend. 

"Exactly.  That  describes  him  very  well.  He 
is  a  bulky,  bearded,  sunburned  fellow,  who  looks 
as  if  he  would  be  more  at  home  in  a  farmers'  inn 
than  in  a  fashionable  hotel.  A  hard,  fierce  man, 
I  should  think,  and  one  whom  I  should  be  sorry 
to  offend." 

Already  the  mystery  began  to  define  itself, 
as  figures  grow  clearer  with  the  lifting  of  a  fog. 
Here  was  this  good  and  pious  lady  pursued  from 
place  to  place  by  a  sinister  and  unrelenting  fig- 
ure. She  feared  him,  or  she  would  not  have  fled 
from  Lausanne.  He  had  still  followed.  Sooner 
or  later  he  would  overtake  her.  Had  he  already 
overtaken  her?  Was  that  the  secret  of  her  con- 
tinued silence  ?  Could  the  good  people  who  were 
her  companions  not  screen  her  from  his  violence 
or  his  blackmail?  What  horrible  purpose,  what 

[213] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


deep  design,  lay  behind  this  long  pursuit?  There 
was  the  problem  which  I  had  to  solve. 

To  Holmes  I  wrote  showing  how  rapidly  and 
surely  I  had  got  down  to  the  roots  of  the  matter. 
In  reply  I  had  a  telegram  asking  for  a  descrip- 
tion of  Dr.  Shlessinger's  left  ear.  Holmes's  ideas 
of  humour  are  strange  and  occasionally  offensive, 
so  I  took  no  notice  of  his  ill-timed  jest — indeed, 
I  had  already  reached  Montpelier  in  my  pursuit 
of  the  maid,  Marie,  before  his  message  came. 

I  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  ex-servant 
and  in  learning  all  that  she  could  tell  me.  She 
was  a  devoted  creature,  who  had  only  left  her 
mistress  because  she  was  sure  that  she  was  in  good 
hands,  and  because  her  own  approaching  mar- 
riage made  a  separation  inevitable  in  any  case. 
Her  mistress  had,  as  she  confessed  with  distress, 
shown  some  irritability  of  temper  towards  her 
during  their  stay  in  Baden,  and  had  even  ques- 
tioned her  once  as  if  she  had  suspicions  of  her 
honesty,  and  this  had  made  the  parting  easier  than 
it  would  otherwise  have  been.  Lady  Frances 
had  given  her  fifty  pounds  as  a  wedding-present. 
Like  me,  Marie  viewed  with  deep  distrust  the 
stranger  who  had  driven  her  mistress  from  Lau- 
sanne. With  her  own  eyes  she  had  seen  him  seize 
the  lady's  wrist  with  great  violence  on  the  public 
promenade  by  the  lake.  He  was  a  fierce  and 
terrible  man.  She  believed  that  it  was  out  of 
dread  of  him  that  Lady  Frances  had  accepted 
[214] 


THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF    LADY    FRANCES    CARFAX 

the  escort  of  the  Shlessingers  to  London.  She 
had  never  spoken  to  Marie  about  it,  but  many  lit- 
tle signs  had  convinced  the  maid  that  her  mistress 
lived  in  a  state  of  continual  nervous  apprehension. 
So  far  she  had  got  in  her  narrative,  when  sud- 
denly she  sprang  from  her  chair  and  her  face  was 
convulsed  with  surprise  and  fear.  "See!"  she 
cried.  "The  miscreant  follows  still!  There  is 
the  very  man  of  whom  I  speak." 

Through  the  open  sitting-room  window  I  saw 
a  huge,  swarthy  man  with  a  bristling  black  beard 
walking  slowly  down  the  centre  of  the  street  and 
staring  eagerly  at  the  numbers  of  the  houses. 
It  was  clear  that,  like  myself,  he  was  on  the  track 
of  the  maid.  Acting  upon  the  impulse  of  the 
moment,  I  rushed  out  and  accosted  him. 

"You  are  an  Englishman,"  I  said. 

"What  if  I  am?"  he  asked,  with  a  most  villain- 
ous scowl. 

"May  I  ask  what  your  name  is?" 

"No,  you  may  not,"  said  he,  with  decision. 

The  situation  was  awkward,  but  the  most  direct 
way  is  often  the  best. 

"Where  is  the  Lady  Frances  Carfax?"  I  asked. 

He  stared  at  me  in  amazement. 

"What  have  you  done  with  her?  Why  have 
you  pursued  her?  I  insist  upon  an  answer!" 
said  I. 

The  fellow  gave  a  bellow  of  anger  and  sprang 
upon  me  like  a  tiger.  I  have  held  my  own  in 

[215] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


many  a  struggle,  but  the  man  had  a  grip  of  iron 
and  the  fury  of  a  fiend.  His  hand  was  on  my 
throat  and  my  senses  were  nearly  gone  before  an 
unshaven  French  ouvrier,  in  a  blue  blouse,  darted 
out  from  a  cabaret  opposite,  with  a  cudgel  in  his 
hand,  and  struck  my  assailant  a  sharp  crack  over 
the  forearm,  which  made  him  leave  go  his  hold. 
He  stood  for  an  instant  fuming  with  rage  and 
uncertain  whether  he  should  not  renew  his  attack. 
Then,  with  a  snarl  of  anger,  he  left  me  and  en- 
tered the  cottage  from  which  I  had  just  come. 
I  turned  to  thank  my  preserver,  who  stood  beside 
me  in  the  roadway. 

"Well,  Watson,"  said  he,  "a  very  pretty  hash 
you  have  made  of  it!  I  rather  think  you  had 
better  come  back  with  me  to  London  by  the  night 
express." 

An  hour  afterwards  Sherlock  Holmes,  in  his 
usual  garb  and  style,  was  seated  in  my  private 
room  at  the  hotel.  His  explanation  of  his  sud- 
den and  opportune  appearance  was  simplicity  it- 
self, for,  finding  that  he  could  get  away  from 
London,  he  determined  to  head  me  off  at  the  next 
obvious  point  of  my  travels.  In  the  disguise  of 
a  working-man  he  had  sat  in  the  cabaret  waiting 
for  my  appearance. 

"And  a  singularly  consistent  investigation  you 
have  made,  my  dear  Watson,"  said  he.  "I  can- 
riot  at  the  moment  recall  any  possible  blunder 
which  you  have  omitted.  The  total  effect  of 
[216] 


THE    DISAPPEAEANCE    OF    LADY    FRANCES    CARFAX 

your  proceedings  has  been  to  give  the  alarm  ev- 
erywhere and  yet  to  discover  nothing." 

"Perhaps  you  would  have  done  no  better,"  I 
answered,  bitterly. 

"There  is  no  'perhaps'  about  it.  I  have  done 
better.  Here  is  the  Hon.  Philip  Green,  who  is 
a  fellow-lodger  with  you  in  this  hotel,  and  we 
may  find  in  him  the  starting-point  for  a  more 
successful  investigation." 

A  card  had  come  up  on  a  salver,  and  it  was 
followed  by  the  same  bearded  ruffian  who  had 
attacked  me  in  the  street.  He  started  when  he 
saw  me. 

"What  is  this,  Mr.  Holmes?"  he  asked.  "I 
had  your  note  and  I  have  come.  But  what  has 
this  man  to  do  with  the  matter?" 

"This  is  my  old  friend  and  associate,  Dr.  Wat- 
son, who  is  helping  us  in  this  affair." 

The  stranger  held  out  a  huge,  sunburned  hand, 
with  a  few  words  of  apology. 

"I  hope  I  didn't  harm  you.  When  you  ac- 
cused me  of  hurting  her  I  lost  my  grip  of  my- 
self. Indeed,  I'm  not  responsible  in  these  days. 
My  nerves  are  like  live  wires.  But  this  situa- 
tion is  beyond  me.  What  I  want  to  know,  in 
the  first  place,  Mr.  Holmes,  is,  how  in  the  wo  "Id 
you  came  to  hear  of  my  existence  at  all." 

"I  am  in  touch  with  Miss  Dobney,  Lady 
Frances's  governess." 

[217] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"Old  Susan  Dobney  with  the  mob  cap!  I  re- 
member her  well." 

"And  she  remembers  you.  It  was  in  the  days 
before — before  you  found  it  better  to  go  to  South 
Africa." 

"Ah,  I  see  you  know  my  whole  story.  I  need 
hide  nothing  from  you.  I  swear  to  you,  Mr. 
Holmes,  that  there  never  was  in  this  world  a  man 
who  loved  a  woman  with  a  more  whole-hearted 
love  than  I  had  for  Frances.  I  was  a  wild 
youngster,  I  know — not  worse  than  others  of  my 
class.  But  her  mind  was  pure  as  snow.  She 
could  not  bear  a  shadow  of  coarseness.  So, 
when  she  came  to  hear  of  things  that  I  had  done, 
she  would  have  no  more  to  say  to  me.  And  yet 
she  loved  me — that  is  the  wonder  of  it! — loved 
me  well  enough  to  remain  single  all  her  sainted 
days  just  for  my  sake  alone.  When  the  years 
had  passed  and  I  had  made  my  money  at  Bar- 
berton  I  thought  perhaps  I  could  seek  her  out  and 
soften  her.  I  had  heard  that  she  was  still  un- 
married. I  found  her  at  Lausanne,  and  tried  all 
I  knew.  She  weakened,  I  think,  but  her  will 
was  strong,  and  when  next  I  called  she  had  left 
the  town.  I  traced  her  to  Baden,  and  then  after 
a  time  heard  that  her  maid  was  here.  I'm  a 
rough  fellow,  fresh  from  a  rough  life,  and  when 
Dr.  Watson  spoke  to  me  as  he  did  I  lost  hold  of 
myself  for  a  moment.  But  for  God's  sake  tell 
me  what  has  become  of  the  Lady  Frances." 
[218] 


THE   DISAPPEARANCE    OF   LADY    FRANCES    CARFAX 

"That  is  for  us  to  find  out,"  said  Sherlock 
Holmes,  with  peculiar  gravity.  "What  is  your 
London  address,  Mr.  Green?" 

"The  Langham  Hotel  will  find  me." 
"Then  may  I  recommend  that  you  return  there 
and  be  on  hand  in  case  I  should  want  you?  I 
have  no  desire  to  encourage  false  hopes,  but  you 
may  rest  assured  that  all  that  can  be  done  will  be 
done  for  the  safety  of  Lady  Frances.  I  can  say 
no  more  for  the  instant.  I  will  leave  you  this 
card  so  that  you  may  be  able  to  keep  in  touch 
with  us.  Now,  Watson,  if  you  will  pack  your 
bag  I  will  cable  to  Mrs.  Hudson  to  make  one  of 
her  best  efforts  for  two  hungry  travellers  at 
seven-thirty  to-morrow." 

A  telegram  was  awaiting  us  when  we  reached 
our  Baker  Street  rooms,  which  Holmes  read  with 
an  exclamation  of  interest  and  threw  across  to 
me.  "Jagged  or  torn,"  was  the  message,  and 
the  place  of  origin  Baden. 

"What  is  this?"  I  asked. 

"It  is  everything,"  Holmes  answered.  "You 
may  remember  my  seemingly  irrelevant  question 
as  to  this  clerical  gentleman's  left  ear.  You 
did  not  answer  it." 

"I  had  left  Baden,  and  could  not  inquire." 

"Exactly.  For  this  reason  I  sent  a  duplicate 
to  the  manager  of  the  Englischer  Hof,  whose 
answer  lies  here." 

[219] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"What  does  it  show?" 

"It  shows,  my  dear  Watson,  that  we  are  deal- 
ing with  an  exceptionally  astute  and  dangerous 
man.  The  Rev.  Dr.  Shlessinger,  missionary 
from  South  America,  is  none  other  than  Holy 
Peters,  one  of  the  most  unscrupulous  rascals  that 
Australia  has  ever  evolved — and  for  a  young 
country  it  has  turned  out  some  very  finished 
types.  His  particular  specialty  is  the  beguiling 
of  lonely  ladies  by  playing  upon  their  religious 
feelings,  and  his  so-called  wife,  an  Englishwo- 
man named  Fraser,  is  a  worthy  helpmate.  The 
nature  of  his  tactics  suggested  his  identity  to 
me,  and  this  physical  peculiarity — he  was  badly 
bitten  in  a  saloon-fight  at  Adelaide  in  '89 — con- 
firmed my  suspicion.  This  poor  lady  is  in  the 
hands  of  a  most  infernal  couple,  who  will  stick 
at  nothing,  Watson.  That  she  is  already  dead  is 
a  very  likely  supposition.  If  not>  she  is  un- 
doubtedly in  some  sort  of  confinement,  and  un- 
able to  write  to  Miss  Dobney  or  her  other  friends. 
It  is  always  possible  that  she  never  reached  Lon- 
don, or  that  she  has  passed  through  it,  but  the 
former  is  improbable,  as,  with  their  system  of 
registration,  it  is  not  easy  for  foreigners  to  play 
tricks  with  the  Continental  police ;  and  the  latter 
is  also  unlikely,  as  these  rogues  could  not  hope  to 
find  any  other  place  where  it  would  be  as  easy 
to  keep  a  person  under  restraint.  All  my  in- 
stincts tell  me  that  she  is  in  London,  but,  as  we 
[220] 


THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF    LADY    FRANCES    CARFAX 

have  at  present  no  possible  means  of  telling 
where,  we  can  only  take  the  obvious  steps,  eat 
our  dinner,  and  possess  our  souls  in  patience. 
Later  in  the  evening  I  will  stroll  down  and  have 
a  word  with  friend  Lestrade  at  Scotland  Yard." 

But  neither  the  official  police  nor  Holmes 's 
own  small,  but  very  efficient,  organisation  sufficed 
to  clear  away  the  mystery.  Amid  the  crowded 
millions  of  London  the  three  persons  we  sought 
were  as  completely  obliterated  as  if  they  had 
never  lived.  Advertisements  were  tried,  and 
failed.  Clues  were  followed,  and  led  to  nothing. 
Every  criminal  resort  which  Shlessinger  might 
frequent  was  drawn  in  vain.  His  old  associates 
were  watched,  but  they  kept  clear  of  him.  And 
then  suddenly,  after  a  week  of  helpless  suspense, 
there  came  a  flash  of  light.  A  silver-and-bril- 
liant  pendant  of  old  Spanish  design  had  been 
pawned  at  Bevington's,  in  Westminster  Road. 
The  pawner  was  a  large,  clean-shaven  man  of 
clerical  appearance.  His  name  and  address 
were  demonstrably  false.  The  ear  had  escaped 
notice,  but  the  description  was  surely  that  of 
Shlessinger. 

Three  times  had  our  bearded  friend  from  the 
Langham  called  for  news — the  third  time  within 
an  hour  of  this  fresh  development.  His  clothes 
were  getting  looser  on  his  great  body.  He 
seemed  to  be  wilting  away  in  his  anxiety.  "If 
you  will  only  give  me  something  to  do!"  was  his 

[221] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


constant  wail.     At  last  Holmes  could  oblige  him. 

"He  has  begun  to  pawn  the  jewels.  We 
should  get  him  now." 

"But  does  this  mean  that  any  harm  has  be- 
fallen the  Lady  Frances?" 

Holmes  shook  his  head  very  gravely. 

"Supposing  that  they  have  held  her  prisoner 
up  to  now,  it  is  clear  that  they  cannot  let  her  loose 
without  their  own  destruction.  We  must  pre- 
pare for  the  worst." 

"What  can  I  do?" 

"These  people  do  not  know  you  by  sight?" 

"No." 

"It  is  possible  that  he  will  go  to  some  other 
pawnbroker  in  the  future.  In  that  case,  we  must 
begin  again.  On  the  other  hand,  he  has  had  a 
fair  price  and  no  questions  asked,  so  if  he  is  in 
need  of  ready-money  he  will  probably  come  back 
to  Bevington's.  I  will  give  you  a  note  to  them, 
and  they  will  let  you  wait  in  the  shop.  If  the 
fellow  comes  you  will  follow  him  home.  But  no 
indiscretion,  and,  above  all,  no  violence.  I  put 
you  on  your  honour  that  you  will  take  no  step 
without  my  knowledge  and  consent." 

For  two  days  the  Hon.  Philip  Green  (he  was, 
I  may  mention,  the  son  of  the  famous  admiral 
of  that  name  who  commanded  the  Sea  of  Azof 
fleet  in  the  Crimean  War)  brought  us  no  news. 
On  the  evening  of  the  third  he  rushed  into  our 
sitting-room,  pale,  trembling,  with  every  muscle 
[222] 


THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF    LADY    FRANCES    CARFAX 

of  his  powerful  frame  quivering  with  excitement. 

"We  have  him!     We  have  him!"  he  cried. 

He  was  incoherent  in  his  agitation.  Holmes 
soothed  him  with  a  few  words,  and  thrust  him 
into  an  armchair. 

"Come,  now,  give  us  the  order  of  events,"  said 
he. 

"She  came  only  an  hour  ago.  It  was  the 
wife,  this  time,  but  the  pendant  she  brought  was 
the  fellow  of  the  other.  She  is  a  tall,  pale  wo- 
man, with  ferret  eyes." 

"That  is  the  lady,"  said  Holmes. 

"She  left  the  office  and  I  followed  her.  She 
walked  up  the  Kennington  Road,  and  I  kept  be- 
hind her.  Presently  she  went  into  a  shop.  Mr. 
Holmes,  it  was  an  undertaker's." 

My  companion  started.  "Well?"  he  asked,  in 
that  vibrant  voice  which  told  of  the  fiery  soul 
behind  the  cold,  grey  face. 

"She  was  talking  to  the  woman  behind  the 
counter.  I  entered  as  well.  'It  is  late,'  I  heard 
her  say,  or  words  to  that  effect.  The  woman 
was  excusing  herself.  'It  should  be  there  before 
now,'  she  answered.  'It  took  longer,  being  out 
of  the  ordinary.'  They  both  stopped  and  looked 
at  me,  so  I  asked  some  question  and  then  left  the 
shop." 

"You  did  excellently  well.  What  happened 
next?" 

"The  woman  came  out,  but  I  had  hid  myself  in 

[223] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


a  doorway.  Her  suspicions  had  been  aroused, 
I  think,  for  she  looked  round  her.  Then  she 
called  a  cab  and  got  in.  I  was  lucky  enough  to 
get  another  and  so  to  follow  her.  She  got  down 
at  last  at  No.  36,  Poultney  Square,  Brixton.  I 
drove  past,  left  my  cab  at  the  corner  of  the  square, 
and  watched  the  house." 

"Did  you  see  anyone?" 

"The  windows  were  all  in  darkness  save  one  on 
the  lower  floor.  The  blind  was  down,  and  I 
could  not  see  in.  I  was  standing  there,  wonder- 
ing what  I  should  do  next,  when  a  covered  van 
drove  up  with  two  men  in  it.  They  descended, 
took  something  out  of  the  van,  and  carried  it 
up  the  steps  to  the  hall  door.  Mr.  Holmes,  it 
was  a  coffin." 

"Ah!" 

"For  an  instant  I  was  on  the  point  of  rushing 
in.  The  door  had  been  opened  to  admit  the  men 
and  their  burden.  It  was  the  woman  who  had 
opened  it.  But  as  I  stood  there  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  me,  and  I  think  that  she  recognised 
me.  I  saw  her  start,  and  she  hastily  closed  the 
door.  I  remembered  my  promise  to  you,  and 
here  I  am." 

"You  have  done  excellent  work,"  said  Holmes 
scribbling  a  few  words  upon  a  half-sheet  of  pa- 
per. "We  can  do  nothing  legal  without  a  war- 
rant, and  you  can  serve  the  cause  best  by  taking 
this  note  down  to  the  authorities  and  getting  one. 
[224] 


THE    DISAPPEABANCE    OF    LADY    FRANCES    CARFAX 

There  may  be  some  difficulty,  but  I  should  think 
that  the  sale  of  the  jewellery  should  be  sufficient. 
Lestrade  will  see  to  all  details." 

"But  they  may  murder  her  in  the  meanwhile. 
What  could  the  coffin  mean,  and  for  whom  could 
it  be  but  for  her?" 

"We  will  do  all  that  can  be  done,  Mr.  Green. 
Not  a  moment  will  be  lost.  Leave  it  in  our 
hands.  Now,  Watson,"  he  added,  as  our  client 
hurried  away,  "he  will  set  the  regular  forces  on 
the  move.  We  are,  as  usual,  the  irregulars,  and 
we  must  take  our  own  line  of  action.  The  situa- 
tion strikes  me  as  so  desperate  that  the  most  ex- 
treme measures  are  justified.  Not  a  moment 
is  to  be  lost  in  getting  to  Poultney  Square. 

"Let  us  try  to  reconstruct  the  situation,"  said 
he,  as  we  drove  swiftly  past  the  Houses  of  Par- 
liament and  over  Westminster  Bridge.  "These 
villains  have  coaxed  this  unhappy  lady  to  Lon- 
don, after  first  alienating  her  from  her  faithful 
maid.  If  she  has  written  any  letters  they  have 
been  intercepted.  Through  some  confederate 
they  have  engaged  a  furnished  house.  Once  in- 
side it,  they  have  made  her  a  prisoner,  and  they 
have  become  possessed  of  the  valuable  jewellery 
which  has  been  their  object  from  the  first.  Al- 
ready they  have  begun  to  sell  part  of  it,  which 
seems  safe  enough  to  them,  since  they  have  no 
reason  to  think  that  anyone  is  interested  in  the 
lady's  fate.  When  she  is  released  she  will,  of 

[225] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


course,  denounce  them.  Therefore,  she  must  not 
be  released.  But  they  cannot  keep  her  under 
lock  and  key  for  ever.  So  murder  is  their  only 
solution." 

"That  seems  very  clear." 

"Now  we  will  take  another  line  of  reasoning. 
When  you  follow  two  separate  chains  of  thought, 
Watson,  you  will  find  some  point  of  intersection 
which  should  approximate  to  the  truth.  We  will 
start  now,  not  from  the  lady,  but  from  the  coffin, 
and  argue  backwards.  That  incident  proves, 
I  fear,  beyond  all  doubt  that  the  lady  is  dead. 
It  points  also  to  an  orthodox  burial  with  proper 
accompaniment  of  medical  certificate  and  official 
sanction.  Had  the  lady  been  obviously  mur- 
dered, they  would  have  buried  her  in  a  hole  in  the 
back  garden.  But  here  all  is  open  and  regular. 
What  does  that  mean?  Surely  that  they  have 
done  her  to  death  in  some  way  which  has  de- 
ceived the  doctor,  and  simulated  a  natural  end 
— poisoning,  perhaps.  And  yet  how  strange 
that  they  should  ever  let  a  doctor  approach  her 
unless  he  were  a  confederate,  which  is  hardly  a 
credible  proposition." 

"Could  they  have  forged  a  medical  certifi- 
cate?" 

"Dangerous,  Watson,  very  dangerous.     No, 

I  hardly  see  them  doing  that.     Pull  up,  cabby! 

This  is  evidently  the  undertaker's,  for  we  have 

just  passed  the  pawnbroker's.     Would  you  go 

[226] 


THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF    LADY    FRANCES    CARFAX 

in,  Watson?  Your  appearance  inspires  confi- 
dence. Ask  what  hour  the  Poultney  Square 
funeral  takes  place  to-morrow." 

The  woman  in  the  shop  answered  me  without 
hesitation  that  it  was  to  be  at  eight  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  "You  see,  Watson,  no  mystery; 
everything  above-board!  In  some  way  the  legal 
forms  have  undoubtedly  been  complied  with,  and 
they  think  that  they  have  little  to  fear.  Well, 
there's  nothing  for  it  now  but  a  direct  frontal  at- 
tack. Are  you  armed?" 

"My  stick!" 

"Well,  well,  we  shall  be  strong  enough. 
'Thrice  is  he  armed  who  hath  his  quarrel  just.' 
We  simply  can't  afford  to  wait  for  the  police,  or 
to  keep  within  the  four  corners  of  the  law.  You 
can  drive  off,  cabby.  Now,  Watson,  we'll  just 
take  our  luck  together,  as  we  have  occasionally 
done  in  the  past." 

He  had  rung  loudly  at  the  door  of  a  great  dark 
house  in  the  centre  of  Poultney  Square.  It  was 
opened  immediately,  and  the  figure  of  a  tall  wo- 
man was  outlined  against  the  dim-lit  hall. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?"  she  asked,  sharply, 
peering  at  us  through  the  darkness. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  Dr.  SMessinger,"  said 
Holmes. 

"There  is  no  such  person  here,"  she  answered, 
and  tried  to  close  the  door,  but  Holmes  had 
jammed  it  with  his  foot. 

[22T] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"Well,  I  want  to  see  the  man  who  lives  here, 
whatever  he  may  call  himself,"  said  Holmes, 
firmly. 

She  hesitated.  Then  she  threw  open  the  door. 
"Well,  come  in!"  said  she.  "My  husband  is  not 
afraid  to  face  any  man  in  the  world."  She  closed 
the  door  behind  us,  and  showed  us  into  a  sitting- 
room  on  the  right  side  of  the  hall,  turning  up  the 
gas  as  she  left  us.  "Mr.  Peters  will  be  with  you 
in  an  instant,"  she  said. 

Her  words  were  literally  true,  for  we  had 
hardly  time  to  look  around  the  dusty  and  moth- 
eaten  apartment  in  which  we  found  ourselves  be- 
fore the  door  opened  and  a  big,  clean-shaven 
bald-headed  man  stepped  lightly  into  the  room. 
He  had  a  large  red  face,  with  pendulous  cheeks, 
and  a  general  air  of  superficial  benevolence 
which  was  marred  by  a  cruel,  vicious  mouth. 

"There  is  surely  some  mistake  here,  gentle- 
men," he  said,  in  an  unctuous,  make-every thing- 
easy  voice.  "I  fancy  that  you  have  been  mis- 
directed. Possibly  if  you  tried  farther  down  the 
street " 

"That  will  do ;  we  have  no  time  to  waste,"  said 
my  companion,  firmly.  "You  are  Henry  Peters, 
of  Adelaide,  late  the  Rev.  Dr.  Shlessinger,  of 
Baden  and  South  America.  I  am  as  sure  of  that 
as  that  my  own  name  is  Sherlock  Holmes." 

Peters,  as  I  will  now  call  him,  started  and 
stared  hard  at  his  formidable  pursuer.  "I  guess 
[228] 


THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF    LADY    FRANCES    CARFAX 

your  name  does  not  frighten  me,  Mr.  Holmes," 
said  he,  coolly.  "When  a  man's  conscience  is 
easy  'you  can't  rattle  him.  What  is  your  busi- 
ness in  my  house?" 

"I  want  to  know  what  you  have  done  with  the 
Lady  Frances  Carfax,  whom  you  brought  away 
with  you  from  Baden." 

"I'd  be  very  glad  if  you  could  tell  me  where 
that  lady  may  be,"  Peters  answered,  coolly.  "I've 
a  bill  against  her  for  nearly  a  hundred  pounds, 
and  nothing  to  show  for  it  but  a  couple  of  trump- 
ery pendants  that  the  dealer  would  hardly  look 
at.  She  attached  herself  to  Mrs.  Peters  and  me 
at  Baden  (it  is  a  fact  that  I  was  using  another 
name  at  the  time-) ,  and  she  stuck  on  to  us  until 
we  came  to  London.  I  paid  her  bill  and  her 
ticket.  Once  in  London,  she  gave  us  the  slip, 
and,  as  I  say,  left  these  out-of-date  jewels  to  pay 
her  bills.  You  find  her,  Mr.  Holmes,  and  I'm 
your  debtor." 

"I  mean  to  find  her,"  said  Sherlock  Holmes. 
"I'm  going  through  this  house  till  I  do  find  her." 

"Where  is  your  warrant?" 

Holmes  half  drew  a  revolver  from  his  pocket. 
"This  will  have  to  serve  till  a  better  one  comes." 

"Why,  you  are  a  common  burglar." 

"So  you  might  describe  me,"  said  Holmes, 
cheerfully.  "My  companion  is  also  a  danger- 
ous ruffian.  And  together  we  are  going  through 
your  house." 

[229] 


HIS  LAST   BOW 


Our  opponent  opened  the  door. 

"Fetch  a  policeman,  Annie!"  said  he.  There 
was  a  whisk  of  feminine  skirts  down  the  passage, 
and  the  hall  door  was  opened  and  shut. 

"Our  time  is  limited,  Watson,"  said  Holmes. 
"If  you  try  to  stop  us,  Peters,  you  will  most  cer- 
tainly get  hurt.  Where  is  that  coffin  which  was 
brought  into  your  house?" 

"What  do  you  want  with  the  coffin?  It  is  in 
use.  There  is  a  body  in  it." 

"I  must  see  that  body." 

"Never  with  my  consent." 

"Then  without  it."  With  a  quick  movement 
Holmes  pushed  the  fellow  to  one  side  and  passed 
into  the  hall.  A  door  half  open  stood  immedi- 
ately before  us.  We  entered.  It  was  the  din- 
ing-room. On  the  table,  under  a  half-lit  chan- 
delier, the  coffin  was  lying.  Holmes  turned  up 
the  gas  and  raised  the  lid.  Deepi  down  in  the 
recesses  of  the  coffin  lay  an  emaciated  figure. 
The  glare  from  the  lights  above  beat  down  upon 
an  aged  and  withered  face.  By  no  possible  proc- 
ess of  cruelty,  starvation,  or  disease  could  this 
worn-out  wreck  be  the  still  beautiful  Lady 
Frances.  Holmes's  face  showed  his  amazement, 
and  also  his  relief. 

"Thank  God!"  he  muttered.  "It's  someone 
else." 

"Ah,  you've  blundered  badly  for  once,  Mr. 
[230] 


THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF    LADY    FRANCES    CARFAX 

Sherlock  Holmes,"  said  Peters,  who  had  fol- 
lowed us  into  the  room. 

"Who  is  this  dead  woman?" 

"Well,  if  you  really  must  know,  she  is  an  old 
nurse  of  my  wife's,  Rose  Spender  her  name, 
whom  we  found  in  the  Brixton  Workhouse  In- 
firmary. We  brought  her  round  here,  called  in 
Dr.  Horsom,  of  13,  Firbank  Villas — mind  you 
take  the  address,  Mr.  Holmes — and  had  her 
carefully  tended,  as  Christian  folk  should.  On 
the  third  day  she  died — certificate  says  senile  de- 
cay— but  that's  only  the  doctor's  opinion,  and, 
of  course,  you  know  better.  We  ordered  her 
funeral  to  be  carried  out  by  Stimson  and  Co., 
of  the  Kennington  Road,  who  will  bury  her  at 
eight  o'clock  to-morrow  morning.  Can  you  pick 
any  hole  in  that,  Mr.  Holmes?  You've  made  a 
silly  blunder,  and  you  may  as  well  own  up  to  it. 
I'd  give  something  for  a  photograph  of  your 
gaping,  staring  face  when  you  pulled  aside  that 
lid  expecting  to  see  the  Lady  Frances  Carfax, 
and  only  found  a  poor  old  woman  of  ninety." 

Holmes's  expression  was  as  impassive  as  ever 
under  the  jeers  of  his  antagonist,  but  his  clenched 
hands  betrayed  his  acute  annoyance. 

"I  am  going  through  your  house,"  said  he. 

"Are  you,  though!"  cried  Peters,  as  a  woman's 
voice  and  heavy  steps  sounded  in  the  passage. 
"We'll  soon  see  about  that.  This  way,  officers, 
if  you  please.  These  men  have  forced  their  way 

[231] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


into  my  house,  and  I  cannot  get  rid  of  them. 
Help  me  to  put  them  out." 

A  sergeant  and  a  constable  stood  in  the  door- 
way. Holmes  drew  his  card  from  his  case. 

"This  is  my  name  and  address.  This  is  my 
friend,  Dr.  Watson." 

"Bless  you,  sir,  we  know  you  very  well,"  said 
the  sergeant,  "but  you  can't  stay  here  without  a 
warrant." 

"Of  course  not.     I  quite  understand  that." 

"Arrest  him!"  cried  Peters. 

"We  know  where  to  lay  our  hands  on  this  gen- 
tleman if  he  is  wanted,"  said  the  sergeant,  majes- 
tically, "but  you'll  have  to  go,  Mr.  Holmes." 

"Yes,  Watson,  we  shall  have  to  go." 

A  minute  later  we  were  in  the  street  once 
more.  Holmes  was  as  cool  as  ever,  but  I  was 
hot  with  anger  and  humiliation.  The  sergeant 
had  followed  us. 

"Sorry,  Mr.  Holmes,  but  that's  the  law." 

"Exactly,  sergeant;  you  could  not  do  other- 
wise." 

"I  expect  there  was  good  reason  for  your  pres- 
ence there.  If  there  is  anything  I  can  do " 

"It's  a  missing  lady,  sergeant,  and  we  think 
she  is  in  that  house.  I  expect  a  warrant  pres- 
ently." 

"Then  I'll  keep  my  eye  on  the  parties,  Mr. 
Holmes.     If  anything  comes  along,  I  will  surely 
let  you  know." 
[232] 


THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF    LADY    FRANCES    CARFAX 

It  was  only  nine  o'clock,  and  we  were  off  full 
cry  upon  the  trail  at  once.  First  we  drove  to 
Brixton  Workhouse  Infirmary,  where  we  found 
that  it  was  indeed  the  truth  that  a  charitable  cou- 
ple had  called  some  days  before,  that  they  had 
claimed  an  imbecile  old  woman  as  a  former  ser- 
vant, and  that  they  had  obtained  permission  to 
take  her  away  with  them.  No  surprise  was  ex- 
pressed at  the  news  that  she  had  since  died. 

The  doctor  was  our  next  goal.  He  had  been 
called  in,  had  found  the  woman  dying  of  pure 
senility,  had  actually  seen  her  pass  away,  and 
had  signed  the  certificate  in  due  form.  "I  as- 
sure you  that  everything  was  perfectly  normal 
and  there  was  no  room  for  foul  play  in  the  mat- 
ter," said  he.  Nothing  in  the  house  had  struck 
him  as  suspicious,  save  that  for  people  of  their 
class  it  was  remarkable  that  they  should  have  no 
servant.  So  far  and  no  farther  went  the  doctor. 

Finally,  we  found  our  way  to  Scotland  Yard. 
There  had  been  difficulties  of  procedure  in  regard 
to  the  warrant.  Some  delay  was  inevitable. 
The  magistrate's  signature  might  not  be  ob- 
tained until  next  morning.  If  Holmes  would 
call  about  nine  he  could  go  down  with  Lestrade 
and  see  it  acted  upon.  So  ended  the  day,  save 
that  near  midnight  our  friend,  the  sergeant, 
called  to  say  that  he  had  seen  flickering  lights 
here  and  there  in  the  windows  of  the  great  dark 
house,  but  that  no  one  had  left  it  and  none  had 

[233] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


entered.  We  could  but  pray  for  patience,  and 
wait  for  the  morrow. 

Sherlock  Holmes  was  too  irritable  for  conver- 
sation and  too  restless  for  sleep.  I  left  him 
smoking  hard,  with  his  heavy,  dark  brows  knot- 
ted together,  and  his  long,  nervous  fingers  tap- 
ping upon  the  arms  of  his  chair,  as  he  turned  over 
in  his  mind  every  possible  solution  of  the  mys- 
tery. Several  times  in  the  course  of  the  night  I 
heard  him  prowling  about  the  house.  Finally, 
just  after  I  had  been  called  in  the  morning,  he 
rushed  into  my  room.  He  was  in  his  dressing- 
gown,  but  his  pale,  hollow-eyed  face  told  me  that 
his  night  had  been  a  sleepless  one. 

"What  time  was  the  funeral?  Eight,  was  it 
not?"  he  asked,  eagerly.  "Well,  it  is  seven- 
twenty  now.  Good  heavens,  Watson,  what  has 
become  of  any  brains  that  God  has  given  me? 
Quick,  man,  quick!  It's  life  or  death — a  hun- 
dred chances  on  death  to  one  on  life.  I'll  never 
forgive  myself,  never,  if  we  are  too  late  I" 

Five  minutes  had  not  passed  before  we  were 
flying  in  a  hansom  down  Baker  Street.  But 
even  so  it  was  twenty-five  to  eight  as  we  passed 
Big  Ben,  and  eight  struck  as  we  tore  down  the 
Brixton  Road.  But  others  were  late  as  well  as 
we.  Ten  minutes  after  the  hour  the  hearse  was 
still  standing  at  the  door  of  the  house,  and  even 
as  our  foaming  horse  came  to  a  halt  the  coffin, 
supported  by  three  men,  appeared  on  the  thresh- 
[234]  " 


THE   DISAPPEARANCE    OF    LADY    FRANCES    CARFAX 

old.  Holmes  darted  forward  and  barred  their 
way. 

"Take  it  back!"  he  cried,  laying  his  hand  on 
the  breast  of  the  foremost.  "Take  it  back  this 
instant!" 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?  Once  again  I 
ask  you,  where  is  your  warrant?"  shouted  the 
furious  Peters,  his  big  red  face  glaring  over  the 
farther  end  of  the  coffin. 

"The  warrant  is  on  its  way.  This  coffin  shall 
remain  in  the  house  until  it  comes." 

The  authority  in  Holmes's  voice  had  its  effect 
upon  the  bearers.  Peters  had  suddenly  van- 
ished into  the  house,  and  they  obeyed  these  new 
orders.  "Quick,  Watson,  quick!  Here  is  a 
screw-driver  I"  he  shouted,  as  the  coffin  was  re- 
placed upon  the  table.  "Here's  one  for  you,  my 
man!  A  sovereign  if  the  lid  comes  off  in  a  min- 
ute! Ask  no  questions — work  away!  That's 
good!  Another!  And  another!  Now  pull  all 
together!  It's  giving!  It's  giving!  Ah,  that 
does  it  at  last!" 

With  a  united  effort  we  tore  off  the  coffin-lid. 
As  we  did  so  there  came  from  the  inside  a  stupe- 
fying and  overpowering  smell  of  chloroform.  A 
body  lay  within,  its  head  all  wreathed  in  cotton- 
wool, which  had  been  soaked  in  the  narcotic. 
Holmes  plucked  it  off  and  disclosed  the  statu- 
esque face  of  a  handsome  and  spiritual  woman  of 
middle  age.  -In  an  instant  he  had  passed  his 

[235] 


HIS  LAST   BOW 


arm  round  the  figure  and  raised  her  to  a  sitting 
position. 

"Is  she  gone,  Watson?  Is  there  a  spark  left? 
Surely  we  are  not  too  late!" 

For  half  an  hour  it  seemed  that  we  were. 
What  with  actual  suif  ocation,  and  what  with  the 
poisonous  fumes  of  the  chloroform,  the  Lady 
Frances  seemed  to  have  passed  the  last  point  of 
recall.  And  then,  at  last,  with  artificial  respira- 
tion, with  injected  ether,  with  every  device  that 
science  could  suggest,  some  flutter  of  life,  some 
quiver  of  the  eyelids,  some  dimming  of  a  mirror, 
spoke  of  the  slowly  returning  life.  A  cab  had 
driven  up,  and  Holmes,  parting  the  blind,  looked 
out  at  it.  "Here  is  Lestrade  with  his  warrant," 
said  he.  "He  will  find  that  his  birds  have  flown. 
And  here,"  he  added,  as  a  heavy  step  hurried 
along  the  passage,  "is  someone  who  has  a  better 
right  to  nurse  this  lady  than  we  have.  Good 
morning,  Mr.  Green;  I  think  that  the  sooner  we 
can  move  the  Lady  Frances  the  better.  Mean- 
while, the  funeral  may  proceed,  and  the  poor  old 
woman  who  still  lies  in  that  coffin  may  go  to  her 
last  resting-place  alone." 

"Should  you  care  to  add  the  case  to  your  an- 
nals, my  dear  Watson,"  said  Holmes  that  even- 
ing, "it  can  only  be  as  an  example  of  that  tem- 
porary eclipse  to  which  even  the  best-balanced 
mind  may  be  exposed.  Such  slips  are  common 
[236] 


THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF    LADY    FRANCES    CARFAX 

to  all  mortals,  and  the  greatest  is  he  who  can  rec- 
ognise and  repair  them.  To  this  modified  credit 
I  may,  perhaps,  make  some  claim.  My  night 
was  haunted  by  the  thought  that  somewhere  a 
clue,  a  strange  sentence,  a  curious  observation, 
had  come  under  my  notice  and  had  been  too  eas- 
ily dismissed.  Then,  suddenly,  in  the  grey  of 
the  morning,  the  words  came  back  to  me.  It  was 
the  remark  of  the  undertaker's  wife,  as  reported 
by  Philip  Green.  She  had  said,  'It  should  be 
there  before  now.  It  took  longer,  being  out  of 
the  ordinary.'  It  was  the  coffin  of  which  she 
spoke.  It  had  been  out  of  the  ordinary.  That 
could  only  mean  that  it  had  been  made  to  some 
special  measurement.  But  why?  Why?  Then 
in  an  instant  I  remembered  the  deep  sides,  and 
the  little  wasted  figure  at  the  bottom.  Why  so 
large  a  coffin  for  so  small  a  body?  To  leave 
room  for  another  body.  Both  would  be  buried 
under  the  one  certificate.  It  had  all  been  so  clear, 
if  only  my  own  sight  had  not  been  dimmed.  At 
eight  the  Lady  Frances  would  be  buried.  Our 
one  chance  was  to  stop  the  coffin  before  it  left 
the  house. 

"It  was  a  desperate  chance  that  we  might  find 
her  alive,  but  it  was  a  chance,  as  the  result 
showed.  These  people  had  never,  to  my  knowl- 
edge, done  a  murder.  They  might  shrink  from 
actual  violence  at  the  last.  They  could  bury  her 
with  no  sign  of  how  she  met  her  end,  and  even  if 

[237] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


she  were  exhumed  there  was  a  chance  for  them. 
I  hoped  that  such  considerations  might  prevail 
with  them.  You  can  reconstruct  the  scene  well 
enough.  You  saw  the  horrible  den  upstairs, 
where  the  poor  lady  had  been  kept  so  long.  They 
rushed  in  and  overpowered  her  with  their  chloro- 
form, carried  her  down,  poured  more  into  the 
coffin  to  insure  against  her  waking,  and  then 
screwed  down  the  lid.  A  clever  device,  Watson. 
It  is  new  to  me  in  the  annals  of  crime.  If  our 
ex-missionary  friends  escape  the  clutches  of 
Lestrade,  I  shall  expect  to  hear  of  some  brilliant 
incidents  in  their  future  career." 


[238] 


VII 

THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  DEVIL'S 
FOOT 


IN  recording  from  time  to  time  some  of  the 
curious  experiences  and  interesting  recol- 
lections which  I  associate  with  my  long  and  inti- 
mate friendship  with  Mr.  Sherlock  Holmes,  I 
have  continually  been  faced  by  difficulties  caused 
by  his  own  aversion  to  publicity.  To  his  sombre 
and  cynical  spirit  all  popular  applause  was  al- 
ways abhorrent,  and  nothing  amused  him  more 
at  the  end  of  a  successful  case  than  to  hand  over 
the  actual  exposure  to  some  orthodox  official, 
and  to  listen  with  a  mocking  smile  to  the  general 
chorus  of  misplaced  congratulation.  It  was  in- 
deed, this  attitude  upon  the  part  of  my  friend, 
and  certainly  not  any  lack  of  interesting  material 
which  has  caused  me  of  late  years  to  lay  very  few 
of  my  records  before  the  public.  My  partici- 
pation in  some  of  his  adventures  was  always  a 
privilege  which  entailed  discretion  and  reticence 
upon  me. 

[239] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


It  was,  then,  with  considerable  surprise  that  I 
received  a  telegram  from  Holmes  last  Tuesday 
— he  has  never  been  known  to  write  where  a  tele- 
gram would  serve — in  the  following  terms:  "Why 
not  tell  them  of  the  Cornish  horror — strangest 
case  I  have  handled."  I  have  no  idea  what  back- 
ward sweep  of  memory  had  brought  the  matter 
fresh  to  his  mind,  or  what  freak  had  caused  him 
to  desire  that  I  should  recount  it;  but  I  hasten, 
before  another  cancelling  telegram  may  arrive, 
to  hunt  out  the  notes  which  give  me  the  exact 
details  of  the  case,  and  to  lay  the  narrative  before 
my  readers. 

It  was,  then,  in  the  spring  of  the  year  1897 
that  Holmes's  iron  constitution  showed  some 
symptoms  of  giving  way  in  the  face  of  constant 
hard  work  of  a  most  exacting  kind,  aggravated, 
perhaps,  by  occasional  indiscretions  of  his  own. 
In  March  of  that  year  Dr.  Moore  Agar,  of 
Harley  Street,  whose  dramatic  introduction 
to  Holmes  I  may  some  day  recount,  gave 
positive  injunctions  that  the  famous  private 
agent  would  lay  aside  all  his  cases  and  sur- 
render himself  to  complete  rest  if  he  wished 
to  avert  an  absolute  break- down.  The  state 
of  his  health  was  not  a  matter  in  which  he 
himself  took  the  faintest  interest,  for  his  men- 
tal detachment  was  absolute,  but  he  was  induced 
at  last,  on  the  threat  of  being  permanently  dis- 
qualified from  work,  to  give  himself  a  complete 
[240] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVIL  S   FOOT 

change  of  scene  and  air.  Thus  it  was  that  in  the 
early  spring  of  that  year  we  found  ourselves 
together  in  a  small  cottage  near  Poldhu  Bay,  at 
the  further  extremity  of  the  Cornish  peninsula. 

It  was  a  singular  spot,  and  one  peculiarly  well 
suited  to  the  grim  humour  of  my  patient.  From 
the  windows  of  our  little  white-washed  house, 
which  stood  high  upon  a  grassy  headland,  we 
looked  down  upon  the  whole  sinister  semi-circle 
of  Mounts  Bay,  that  old  death  trap  of  sailing 
vessels,  with  its  fringe  of  black  cliffs  and  surge- 
swept  reefs  on  which  innumerable  seamen  have 
met  their  end.  With  a  northerly  breeze  it  lies 
placid  and  sheltered,  inviting  the  storm-tossed 
craft  to  tack  into  it  for  rest  and  protection. 

Then  comes  the  sudden  swirl  round  of  the 
wind,  the  blustering  gale  from  the  south-west, 
the  dragging  anchor,  the  lee  shore,  and  the  last 
battle  in  the  creaming  breakers.  The  wise  mar- 
iner stands  far  out  from  that  evil  place. 

On  the  land  side  our  surroundings  were  as 
sombre  as  on  the  sea.  It  was  a  country  of  roll- 
ing moors,  lonely  and  dun-coloured,  with  an  occa- 
sional church  tower  to  mark  the  site  of  some 
old-world  village.  In  every  direction  upon  these 
moors  there  were  traces  of  some  vanished  race 
which  had  passed  utterly  away,  and  left  as  its 
sole  record  strange  monuments  of  stone,  ir- 
regular mounds  which  contained  the  burned  ashes 
of  the  dead,  and  curious  earthworks  which  hinted 

[241] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


at  prehistoric  strife.  The  glamour  and  mystery 
of  the  place,  with  its  sinister  atmosphere  of  for- 
gotten nations,  appealed  to  the  imagination  of 
my  friend,  and  he  spent  much  of  his  time  in  long 
walks  and  solitary  meditations  upon  the  moor. 
The  ancient  Cornish  language  had  also  arrested 
his  attention,  and  he  had,  I  remember,  conceived 
the  idea  that  it  was  akin  to  the  Chaldean,  and 
had  been  largely  derived  from  the  Phoenician 
traders  in  tin.  He  had  received  a  consignment 
of  books  upon  philology  and  was  settling  down  to 
develop  this  thesis,  when  suddenly,  to  my  sorrow 
and  to  his  unfeigned  delight,  we  found  ourselves, 
even  in  that  land  of  dreams,  plunged  into  a  prob- 
lem at  our  very  doors  which  was  more  intense, 
more  engrossing,  and  infinitely  more  mysterious 
than  any  of  those  which  had  driven  us  from  Lon- 
don. Our  simple  life  and  peaceful,  healthy  rou- 
tine were  violently  interrupted,  and  we  were  pre- 
cipitated into  the  midst  of  a  series  of  events  which 
caused  the  utmost  excitement  not  only  in  Corn- 
wall, but  throughout  the  whole  West  of  Eng- 
land. Many  of  my  readers  may  retain  some  rec- 
ollection of  what  was  called  at  the  time  "The 
Cornish  Horror,"  though  a  most  imperfect  ac- 
count of  the  matter  reached  the  London  Press. 
Now,  after  thirteen  years,  I  will  give  the  true 
details  of  this  inconceivable  affair  to  the  public. 
I  have  said  that  scattered  towers  marked  the 
villages  which  dotted  this  part  of  Cornwall.  The 
[242] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVIL  S   FOOT 

nearest  of  these  was  the  hamlet  of  Tredannick 
Wollas,  where  the  cottages  of  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred inhabitants  clustered  round  an  ancient, 
moss-grown  church.  The  vicar  of  the  parish,  Mr. 
Roundhay,  was  something  of  an  archaeologist,  and 
as  such  Holmes  had  made  his  acquaintance.  He 
was  a  middle-aged  man,  portly  and  affable,  with 
a  considerable  fund  of  local  lore.  At  his  invita- 
tion we  had  taken  tea  at  the  vicarage,  and  had 
come  to  know,  also,  Mr.  Mortimer  Tregennis,  an 
independent  gentleman,  who  increased  the  cler- 
gyman's scanty  resources  by  taking  rooms  in 
his  large,  straggling  house.  The  vicar,  being  a 
bachelor,  was  glad  to  come  to  such  an  arrange- 
ment, though  he  had  little  in  common  with  his 
lodger,  who  was  a  thin,  dark,  spectacled  man, 
with  a  stoop  which  gave  the  impression  of  actual, 
physical  deformity.  I  remember  that  during 
our  short  visit  we  found  the  vicar  garrulous,  but 
his  lodger  strangely  reticent,  a  sad-faced,  intro- 
spective man,  sitting  with  averted  eyes,  brooding 
apparently  upon  his  own  affairs. 

These  were  tbf  ^"^  men  who  entered  abruptly 
into  our  little  sitting-room  on  Tuesday,  March 
the  16th,  shortly  after  our  breakfast  hour,  as  we 
were  smoking  together,  preparatory  to  our  daily 
excursion  upon  the  moors. 

"Mr.  Holmes,"  said  the  vicar,  in  an  agitated 
voice,  "the  most  extraordinary  and  tragic  affair 
has  occurred  during  the  night.  It  is  the  most 

[243] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


unheard-of  business.  We  can  only  regard  it  as 
a  special  Providence  that  you  should  chance  to 
be  here  at  the  time,  for  in  all  England  you  are 
the  one  man  we  need." 

I  glared  at  the  intrusive  vicar  with  no  very 
friendly  eyes ;  but  Holmes  toke  his  pipe  from  his 
lips  and  sat  up  in  his  chair  like  an  old  hound 
who  hears  the  view-halloa.  He  waved  his  hand 
to  the  sofa,  and  our  palpitating  visitor  with  his 
agitated  companion  sat  side  by  side  upon  it.  Mr. 
Mortimer  Tregennis  was  more  self-contained 
than  the  clergyman,  but  the  twitching  of  his  thin 
hands  and  the  brightness  of  his  dark  eyes  showed 
that  they  shared  a  common  emotion. 

"Shall  I  speak  or  you?"  he  asked  of  the  vicar. 

"Well,  as  you  seem  to  have  made  the  discov- 
ery, whatever  it  may  be,  and  the  vicar  to  have 
had  it  second-hand,  perhaps  you  had  better  do 
the  speaking,"  said  Holmes. 

I  glanced  at  the  hastily-clad  clergyman,  with 
the  formally-dressed  lodger  seated  beside  him, 
and  was  amused  at  the  surprise  which  Holmes 's 
simple  deduction  had  brou'"1'*  x<:  their  faces. 

"Perhaps  I  had  best  say  a  few  words  first," 
said  the  vicar,  "and  then  you  can  judge  if  you 
will  listen  to  the  details  from  Mr.  Tregennis,  or 
whether  we  should  not  hasten  at  once  to  the  scene 
of  this  mysterious  affair.  I  may  explain,  then, 
that  our  friend  here  spent  last  evening  in  the 
company  of  his  two  brothers,  Owen  and  George, 
[244] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVIL  S   FOOT 

and  of  his  sister  Brenda,  at  their  house  of  Tre- 
dannick  Wartha,  which  is  near  the  old  stone 
cross  upon  the  moor.  He  left  them  shortly  after 
ten  o'clock,  playing  cards  round  the  dining-room 
table,  in  excellent  health  and  spirits.  This  morn- 
ing, being  an  early  riser,  he  walked  in  that  direc- 
tion before  breakfast,  and  was  overtaken  by  the 
carriage  of  Dr.  Richards,  who  explained  that  he 
had  just  been  sent  for  on  a  most  urgent  call  to 
Tredannick  Wartha.  Mr.  Mortimer  Tregennis 
naturally  went  with  him.  When  he  arrived  at 
Tredannick  Wartha  he  found  an  extraordinary 
state  of  things.  His  two  brothers  and  his  sister 
were  seated  round  the  table  exactly  as  he  had  left 
them,  the  cards  still  spread  in  front  of  them  and 
the  candles  burned  down  to  their  sockets.  The 
sister  lay  back  stone-dead  in  her  chair,  while  the 
two  brothers  sat  on  each  side  of  her  laughing, 
shouting,  and  singing,  the  senses  stricken  clean 
out  of  them.  All  three  of  them,  the  dead  woman 
and  the  two  demented  men,  retained  upon  their 
faces  an  expression  of  the  utmost  horror — a  con- 
vulsion of  terror  which  was  dreadful  to  look  upon. 
There  was  no  sign  of  the  presence  of  anyone  in 
the  house,  except  Mrs.  Porter,  the  old  cook  and 
housekeeper,  who  declared  that  she  had  slept 
deeply  and  heard  no  sound  during  the  night. 
Nothing  had  been  stolen  or  disarranged,  and 
there  is  absolutely  no  explanation  of  what  the 
ji  error  can  be  which  has  frightened  a  woman  to 

[245] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


death  and  two  strong  men  out  of  their  senses. 
There  is  the  situation,  Mr.  Holmes,  in  a  nutshell, 
and  if  you  can  help  us  to  clear  it  up  you  will  have 
done  a  great  work." 

I  had  hoped  that  in  some  way  I  could  coax  my 
companion  back  into  the  quiet  which  had  been  the 
object  of  our  journey;  but  one  glance  at  his  in- 
tense face  and  contracted  eyebrows  told  me  how 
vain  was  now  the  expectation.  He  sat  for  some 
little  time  in  silence,  absorbed  in  the  strange 
drama  which  had  broken  in  upon  our  peace. 

"I  will  look  into  this  matter,"  he  said  at  last. 
"On  the  face  of  it,  it  would  appear  to  be  a  case 
of  a  very  exceptional  nature.  Have  you  been 
there  yourself,  Mr,  Roundhay?" 

"No,  Mr.  Holmes.  Mr.  Tregennis  brought 
back  the  account  to  the  vicarage,  and  I  at  once 
hurried  over  with  him  to  consult  you." 

"How  far  is  it  to  the  house  where  this  singular 
tragedy  occurred?" 

"About  a  mile  inland." 

"Then  we  shall  walk  over  together.  But,  be- 
fore we  start,  I  must  ask  you  a  few  questions, 
Mr.  Mortimer  Tregennis." 

The  other  had  been  silent  all  this  time,  but  I 
had  observed  that  his  more  controlled  excitement 
was  even  greater  than  the  obtrusive  emotion  of 
the  clergyman.  He  sat  with  a  pale,  drawn  face, 
his  anxious  gaze  fixed  upon  Holmes,  and  his  thin 
hands  clasped  convulsively  together.  His  pale 
[246] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVILS   FOOT 

lips  quivered  as  he  listened  to  the  dreadful  experi- 
ence which  had  befallen  his  family,  and  his  dark 
eyes  seemed  to  reflect  something  of  the  horror  of 
the  scene. 

"Ask  what  you  like,  Mr.  Holmes,"  said  he 
eagerly.  "It  is  a  bad  thing  to  speak  of,  but 
I  will  answer  you  the  truth." 

"Tell  me  about  last  night." 

"Well,  Mr,  Holmes,  I  supped  there,  as  the 
vicar  has  said,  and  my  elder  brother  George  pro- 
posed a  game  of  whist  afterwards.  We  sat  down 
about  nine  o'clock.  It  was  a  quarter-past  ten 
when  I  moved  to  go.  I  left  them  all  round  the 
table,  as  merry  as  could  be." 

"Who  let  you  out?" 

"Mrs.  Porter  had  gone  to  bed,  so  I  let  myself 
out.  I  shut  the  hall  door  behind  me.  The  win- 
dow of  the  room  in  which  they  sat  was  closed,  but 
the  blind  was  not  drawn  down.  There  was  no 
change  in  door  or  window  this  morning,  nor  any 
reason  to  think  that  any  stranger  had  been  to 
the  house.  Yet  there  they  sat,  driven  clean  mad 
with  terror,  and  Grenda  lying  dead  of  fright, 
with  her  head  hanging  over  the  arm  of  the  chair. 
I'll  never  get  the  sight  of  that  room  out  of  my 
mind  so  long  as  I  live.9' 

"The  facts,  as  you  state  them,  are  certainly 
most  remarkable,"  said  Holmes.  "I  take  it  that 
you  have  no  theory  yourself  which  can  in  any 
way  account  for  them?" 

[247] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"It's  devilish,  Mr.  Holmes;  devilish!"  cried 
Mortimer  Tregennis.  "It  is  not  of  this  world. 
Something  has  come  into  that  room  which  has 
dashed  the  light  of  reason  from  their  minds. 
What  human  contrivance  could  do  that?" 

"I  fear,"  said  Holmes,  "that  if  the  matter  is 
beyond  humanity  it  is  certainly  beyond  me.  Yet 
we  must  exhaust  all  natural  explanations  before 
we  fall  back  upon  such  a  theory  as  this.  As  to 
yourself,  Mr.  Tregennis,  I  take  it  you  were  di- 
vided in  some  way  from  your  family,  since  they 
lived  together  and  you  had  rooms  apart?" 

"That  is  so,  Mr.  Holmes,  though  the  matter 
is  past  and  done  with.  We  were  a  family  of  tin- 
miners  at  Redruth,  but  we  sold  out  our  venture 
to  a  company,  and  so  retired  with  enough  to  keep 
us.  I  won't  deny  that  there  was  some  feeling 
about  the  division  of  the  money  and  it  stood  be- 
tween us  for  a  time,  but  it  was  all  forgiven  and 
forgotten,  and  we  were  the  best  of  friends  to- 
gether." 

"Looking  back  at  the  evening  which  you  spent 
together,  does  anything  stand  out  in  your  mem- 
ory as  throwing  any  possible  light  upon  the  trag- 
edy? Think  carefully,  Mr.  Tregennis,  for  any 
clue  which  can  help  me." 

"There  is  nothing  at  all,  sir." 

"Your  people  were  in  their  usual  spirits?" 

"Never  better." 
[248] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVIL  S   FOOT 

"Were  they  nervous  people?  Did  they  ever 
show  any  apprehension  of  coming  danger?" 

"Nothing  of  the  kind." 

"You  have  nothing  to  add  then,  which  could 
assist  me?" 

Mortimer  Tregennis  considered  earnestly  for 
a  moment. 

"There  is  one  thing  occurs  to  me,"  said  he  at 
last.  "As  we  sat  at  the  table  my  back  was  to 
the  window,  and  my  brother  George,  he  being  my 
partner  at  cards,  was  facing  it.  I  saw  him  once 
look  hard  over  my  shoulder,  so  I  turned  round 
and  looked  also.  The  blind  was  iip  and  the 
window  shut,  but  I  could  just  make  out  the 
bushes  on  the  lawn,  and  it  seemed  to  me  for  a  mo- 
ment that  I  saw  something  moving  among  them. 
I  couldn't  even  say  if  it  were  man  or  animal, 
but  I  just  thought  there  was  something  there. 
When  I  asked  him  what  he  was  looking  at,  he 
told  me  that  he  had  the  same  feeling.  That  is  all 
that  I  can  say." 

"Did  you  not  investigate?" 

"No;  the  matter  passed  as  unimportant." 

"You  left  them,  then,  without  any  premoni- 
tion of  evil?" 

"None  at  all." 

"I  am  not  clear  how  you  came  to  hear  the  news 
so  early  this  morning." 

"I  am  an  early  riser,  and  generally  take  a  walk 
before  breakfast.  This  morning  I  had  hardly 

[249] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


started  when  the  doctor  in  his  carriage  overtook 
me.  He  told  me  that  old  Mrs.  Porter  had  sent 
a  boy  down  with  an  urgent  message.  I  sprang 
in  beside  him  and  we  drove  on.  When  we  got 
there  we  looked  into  that  dreadful  room.  The 
candles  and  the  fire  must  have  burned  out  hours 
before,  and  they  had  been  sitting  there  in  the 
dark  until  dawn  had  broken.  The  doctor  said 
Brenda  must  have  been  dead  at  least  six  hours. 
There  were  no  signs  of  violence.  She  just  lay 
across  the  arm  of  the  chair  with  that  look  on  her 
face.  George  and  Owen  were  singing  snatches 
of  songs  and  gibbering  like  two  great  apes.  Oh, 
it  was  awful  to  see!  I  couldn't  stand  it,  and 
the  doctor  was  as  white  as  a  sheet.  Indeed,  he 
fell  into  a  chair  in  a  sort  of  faint,  and  we  nearly 
had  him  on  our  hands  as  well." 

"Remarkable — most  remarkable! "said  Holmes, 
rising  and  taking  his  hat.  "I  think,  perhaps,  we 
had  better  go  down  to  Tredannick  Wartha  with- 
out further  delay.  I  confess  that  I  have  seldom 
known  a  case  which  at  first  sight  presented  a 
more  singular  problem." 

Our  proceedings  of  that  first  morning  did  little 
to  advance  the  investigation.  It  was  marked, 
however,  at  the  outset  by  an  incident  which  left 
the  most  sinister  impression  upon  my  mind.  The 
approach  to  the  spot  at  which  the  tragedy  oc- 
curred is  down  a  narrow,  winding,  country  lane. 
[250] 


THE   ADVENTURE  OF   THE  DEVIL'S   FOOT 

While  we  made  our  way  along  it  we  heard  the 
rattle  of  a  carriage  coming  towards  us,  and  stood 
aside  to  let  it  pass.  As  it  drove  by  us  I  caught  a 
glimpse  through  the  closed  window  of  a  horribly 
contorted,  grinning  face  glaring  out  at  us. 
Those  staring  eyes  and  gnashing  teeth  flashed 
past  us  like  a  dreadful  vision. 

"My  brothers!"  cried  Mortimer  Tregennis, 
white  to  his  lips.  "They  are  taking  them  to 
Helston." 

We  looked  with  horror  after  the  black  carriage, 
lumbering  upon  its  way.  Then  we  turned  our 
steps  towards  this  ill-omened  house  in  which  they 
had  met  their  strange  fate. 

It  was  a  large  and  bright  dwelling,  rather  a 
villa  than  a  cottage,  with  a  considerable  garden 
which  was  already,  in  that  Cornish  air,  well  filled 
with  spring  flowers.  Towards  this  garden  the 
window  of  the  sitting-room  fronted,  and  from  it, 
according  to  Mortimer  Tregennis,  must  have 
come  that  thing  of  evil  which  had  by  sheer  horror 
in  a  single  instant  blasted  their  minds.  Holmes 
walked  slowly  and  thoughtfully  among  the 
flower-plots  and  along  the  path  before  we  entered 
the  porch.  So  absorbed  was  he  in  his  thoughts, 
I  remember,  that  he  stumbled  over  the  watering- 
pot,  upset  its  contents,  and  deluged  both  our  feet 
and  the  garden  path.  Inside  the  house  we  were 
met  by  the  elderly  Cornish  housekeeper,  Mrs. 
Porter,  who,  with  the  aid  of  a  young  girl,  looked 

[251] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


after  the  wants  of  the  family.  She  readily  an- 
swered all  Holmes's  questions.  She  had  heard 
nothing  in  the  night.  Her  employers  had  all  been 
in  excellent  spirits  lately,  and  she  had  never 
known  them  more  cheerful  and  prosperous.  She 
had  fainted  with  horror  upon  entering  the  room 
in  the  morning  and  seeing  that  dreadful  company 
round  the  table.  She  had,  when  she  recovered, 
thrown  open  the  window  to  let  the  morning  air 
in,  and  had  run  down  to  the  lane,  whence  she  sent 
a  farm-lad  for  the  doctor.  The  lady  was  on  her 
bed  upstairs,  if  we  cared  to  see  her.  It  took  four 
strong  men  to  get  the  brothers  into  the  asylum 
carriage.  She  would  not  herself  stay  in  the 
house  another  day,  and  was  starting  that  very 
afternoon  to  rejoin  her  family  at  St.  Ives. 

We  ascended  the  stairs  and  viewed  the  body. 
Miss  Brenda  Tregennis  had  been  a  very  beau- 
tiful girl,  though  now  verging  upon  middle  age. 
Her  dark,  clear-cut  face  was  handsome,  even  in 
death,  but  there  still  lingered  upon  it  something 
of  that  convulsion  of  horror  which  had  been  her 
last  human  emotion.  From  her  bedroom  we  de- 
scended to  the  sitting-room  where  this  strange 
tragedy  had  actually  occurred.  The  charred 
ashes  of  the  overnight  fire  lay  in  the  grate.  On 
the  table  were  the  four  guttered  and  burned-out 
candles,  with  the  cards  scattered  over  its  surface. 
The  chairs  had  been  moved  back  against  the 
walls,  but  all  else  was  as  it  had  been  the  night 
[252] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVIL  S   FOOT 

before.  Holmes  paced  with  light,  swift  steps 
about  the  room ;  he  sat  in  the  various  chairs,  draw- 
ing them  up  and  reconstructing  their  positions. 
He  tested  how  much  of  the  garden  was  visible; 
he  examined  the  floor,  the  ceiling?  and  the  fire- 
place; but  never  once  did  I  see  that  sudden 
brightening  of  his  eyes  and  tightening  of  his  lips 
which  would  have  told  me  that  he  saw  some  gleam 
of  light  in  this  utter  darkness. 

"Why  a  fire?"  he  asked  once.  "Had  they  al- 
ways a  fire  in  this  small  room  on  a  spring  even- 
ing?" 

Mortimer  Tregennis  explained  that  the  night 
was  cold  and  damp.  For  that  reason,  after  his 
arrival,  the  fire  was  lit.  "What  are  you  going 
to  do  now,  Mr.  Holmes?"  he  asked. 

My  friend  smiled  and  laid  his  hand  upon  my 
arm.  "I  think,  Watson,  that  I  shall  resume  that 
course  of  tobacco-poisoning  which  you  have  so 
often  and  so  justly  condemned,"  said  he.  "With 
your  permission,  gentlemen,  we  will  now  return 
to  our  cottage,  for  I  am  not  aware  that  any  new 
factor  is  likely  to  come  to  our  notice  here.  I  will 
turn  the  facts  over  in  my  mind,  Mr.  Tregennis, 
and  should  anything  occur  to  me  I  will  certainly 
communicate  with  you  and  the  vicar.  In  the 
meantime  I  wish  you  both  good  morning." 

It  was  not  until  long  after  we  were  back  in 
Poldhu  Cottage  that  Holmes  broke  his  complete 
and  absorbed  silence.  He  sat  coiled  in  his  arm- 

[253] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


chair,  his  haggard  and  ascetic  face  hardly  visible 
amid  the  blue  swirl  of  his  tobacco  smoke,  his  black 
brows  drawn  down,  his  forehead  contracted,  his 
eyes  vacant  and  far  away.  Finally,  he  laid  down 
his  pipe  and  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"It  won't  do,  Watson!"  said  he,  with  a  laugh. 
"Let  us  walk  along  the  cliffs  together  and  search 
for  flint  arrows.  We  are  more  likely  to  find  them 
than  clues  to  this  problem.  To  let  the  brain  work 
without  sufficient  material  is  like  racing  an  en- 
gine. It  racks  itself  to  pieces.  The  sea  air, 
sunshine,  and  patience,  Watson — all  else  will 
come. 

"Now,  let  us  calmly  define  our  position,  Wat- 
son/' he  continued,  as  we  skirted  the  cliffs  to- 
gether. "Let  us  get  a  firm  grip  of  the  very  little 
which  we  do  know,  so  that  when  fresh  facts  arise 
we  may  be  ready  to  fit  them  into  their  places.  I 
take  it,  in  the  first  place,  that  neither  of  us  is  pre- 
pared to  admit  diabolical  intrusions  into  the  af- 
fairs of  men.  Let  us  begin  by  ruling  that  en- 
tirely out  of  our  minds.  Very  good.  There  re- 
main three  persons  who  have  been  grievously 
stricken  by  some  conscious  or  unconscious  human 
agency.  That  is  firm  ground.  Now,  when  did 
this  occur?  Evidently,  assuming  his  narrative 
to  be  true,  it  was  immediately  after  Mr.  Morti- 
mer Tregennis  had  left  the  room.  That  is  a  very 
important  point.  The  presumption  is  that  it 
was  within  a  few  minutes  afterwards.  The  cards 
[254] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVILS   FOOT 

still  lay  upon  the  table.  It  was  already  past 
their  usual  hour  for  bed.  Yet  they  had  not 
changed  their  position  or  pushed  back  their 
chairs.  I  repeat,  then,  that  the  occurrence  was 
immediately  after  his  departure,  and  not  later 
than  eleven  o'clock  last  night. 

"Our  next  obvious  step  is  to  check,  so  far  as 
we  can,  the  movements  of  Mortimer  Tregennis 
after  he  left  the  room.  In  this  there  is  no  diffi- 
culty, and  they  seem  to  be  above  suspicion. 
Knowing  my  methods  as  you  do,  you  were,  of 
course,  conscious  of  the  somewhat  clumsy  wa- 
ter-pot expedient  by  which  I  obtained  a  clearer 
impress  of  his  foot  than  might  otherwise  have 
been  possible.  The  wet,  sandy  path  took  it  ad- 
mirably. Last  night  was  also  wet,  you  will  re- 
member, and  it  was  not  difficult — having  obtained 
a  sample  print — to  pick  out  his  track  among  oth- 
ers and  to  follow  his  movements.  He  appears 
to  have  walked  away  swiftly  in  the  direction  of 
the  vicarage. 

"If,  then,  Mortimer  Tregennis  disappeared 
from  the  scene,  and  yet  some  outside  person  af- 
fected the  card-players,  how  can  we  reconstruct 
that  person,  and  how  was  such  an  impression  of 
horror  conveyed?  Mrs.  Porter  may  be  elim- 
inated. She  is  evidently  harmless.  Is  there  any 
evidence  that  someone  crept  up  to  the  garden 
window  and  in  some  manner  produced  so  ter- 
rific an  effect  that  he  drove  those  who  saw  it  out 

[255] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


of  their  senses?  The  only  suggestion  in  this  di- 
rection comes  from  Mortimer  Tregennis  himself, 
who  says  that  his  brother  spoke  about  some  move- 
ment in  the  garden.  That  is  certainly  remark- 
able, as  the  night  was  rainy,  cloudy,  and  dark. 
Anyone  who  had  the  design  to  alarm  these  peo- 
ple would  be  compelled  to  place  his  very  face 
against  the  glass  before  he  could  be  seen.  There 
is  a  three-foot  flower-border  outside  this  win- 
dow, but  no  indication  of  a  footmark.  It  is  dif- 
ficult to  imagine,  then,  how  an  outsider  could 
have  made  so  terrible  an  impression  upon  the 
company,  nor  have  we  found  any  possible  mo- 
tive for  so  strange  and  elaborate  an  attempt. 
You  perceive  our  difficulties,  Watson?" 

"They  are  only  too  clear,"  I  answered,  with 
conviction. 

"And  yet,  with  a  little  more  material,  we  may 
prove  that  they  are  not  insurmountable,"  said 
Holmes.  "I  fancy  that  among  your  extensive 
archives,  Watson,  you  may  find  some  which  were 
nearly  as  obscure.  Meanwhile,  we  shall  put  the 
case  aside  until  more  accurate  data  are  available, 
and  devote  the  rest  of  our  morning  to  the  pursuit 
of  neolithic  man." 

I  may  have  commented  upon  my  friend's 
power  of  mental  detachment,  but  never  have  I 
wondered  at  it  more  than  upon  that  spring  morn- 
ing in  Cornwall  when  for  two  hours  he  discoursed 
upon  celts,  arrowheads,  and  shards,  as  lightly  as 
[256] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVILS   FOOT 

if  no  sinister  mystery  was  waiting  for  his  solu- 
tion. It  was  not  until  we  had  returned  in  the 
afternoon  to  our  cottage  that  we  found  a  visitor 
awaiting  us,  who  soon  brought  our  minds  back 
to  the  matter  in  hand.  Neither  of  us  needed  to 
be  told  who  that  visitor  was.  The  huge  body, 
the  craggy  and  deeply-seamed  face  with  the  fierce 
eyes  and  hawk-like  nose,  the  grizzled  hair  which 
nearly  brushed  our  cottage  ceiling,  the  beard — 
golden  at  the  fringes  and  white  near  the  lips,  save 
for  the  nicotine  stain  from  his  perpetual  cigar — 
all  these  were  as  well  known  in  London  as  in 
Africa,  and  could  only  be  associated  with  the  tre- 
mendous personality  of  Dr.  Leon  Sterndale,  the 
great  lion-hunter  and  explorer. 

We  had  heard  of  his  presence  in  the  district, 
and  had  once  or  twice  caught  sight  of  his  tall 
figure  upon  the  moorland  paths.  He  made  no 
advances  to  us,  however,  nor  would  we  have 
dreamed  of  doing  so  to  him,  as  it  was  well  known 
that  it  was  his  love  of  seclusion  which  caused  him 
to  spend  the  greater  part  of  the  intervals  between 
his  journeys  in  a  small  bungalow  buried  in  the 
lonely  wood  of  Beauchamp  Arriance.  Here, 
amid  his  books  and  his  maps,  he  lived  an  abso- 
lutely lonely  life,  attending  to  his  own  simple 
wants,  and  paying  little  apparent  heed  to  the 
affairs  of  his  neighbours.  It  was  a  surprise  to 
me,  therefore,  to  hear  him  asking  Holmes  in  an 
eager  voice,  whether  he  had  made  any  advance 

[257] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


in  his  reconstruction  of  this  mysterious  episode. 
"The  county  police  are  utterly  at  fault,"  said  he; 
"but  perhaps  your  wider  experience  has  sug- 
gested some  conceivable  explanation.  My  only 
claim  to  being  taken  into  your  confidence  is  that 
during  my  many  residences  here  I  have  come  to 
know  this  family  of  Tregennis  very  well — indeed, 
upon  my  Cornish  mother's  side  I  could  call  them 
cousins — and  their  strange  fate  has  naturally 
been  a  great  shock  to  me.  I  may  tell  you  that 
I  had  got  as  far  as  Plymouth  upon  my  way  to 
Africa,  but  the  news  reached  me  this  morning, 
and  I  came  straight  back  again  to  help  in  the  in- 
quiry." 

Holmes  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"Did  you  lose  your  boat  through  it?" 

"I  will  take  the  next." 

"Dear  me!  that  is  friendship  indeed." 

"I  tell  you  they  were  relatives." 

"Quite  so — cousins  of  your  mother.  Was 
your  baggage  aboard  the  ship?" 

"Some  of  it,  but  the  main  part  at  the  hotel." 

"I  see.  But  surely  this  event  could  not  have 
found  its  way  into  the  Plymouth  morning  pa- 
pers?" 

"No,  sir;  I  had  a  telegram." 

"Might  I  ask  from  whom?" 

A  shadow  passed  over  the  gaunt  face  of  the 
explorer. 

"You  are  very  inquisitive,  Mr.  Holmes." 
[258] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVILS   FOOT 

"It  is  my  business." 

With  an  effort,  Dr.  Sterndale  recovered  his 
ruffled  composure. 

"I  have  no  objection  to  telling  you,"  he  said. 
"It  was  Mr.  Roundhay,  the  vicar,  who  sent  me 
the  telegram  which  recalled  me." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Holmes.  "I  may  say  in 
answer  to  your  original  question,  that  I  have  not 
cleared  my  mind  entirely  on  the  subject  of  this 
case,  but  that  I  have  every  hope  of  reaching  some 
conclusion.  It  would  be  premature  to  say  more." 

"Perhaps  you  would  not  mind  telling  me  if 
your  suspicions  point  in  any  particular  direc- 
tion?" 

"No,  I  can  hardly  answer  that." 

"Then  I  have  wasted  my  time,  and  need  not 
prolong  my  visit."  The  famous  doctor  strode 
out  of  our  cottage  in  considerable  ill-humour.,  and 
within  five  minutes  Holmes  had  followed  him. 
I  saw  him  no  more  until  the  evening,  when  he 
returned  with  a  slow  step  and  haggard  face  which 
assured  me  that  he  had  made  no  great  progress 
with  his  investigation.  He  glanced  at  a  tele- 
gram which  awaited  him,  and  threw  it  into  the 
grate. 

"From  the  Plymouth  hotel,  Watson,"  he  said. 
"I  learned  the  name  of  it  from  the  vicar,  and  I 
wired  to  make  certain  that  Dr.  Leon  Sterndale's 
account  was  true.  It  appears  that  he  did  in- 
deed spend  last  night  there,  and  that  he  has  actu- 

[259] 


HIS   LAST    BOW 


ally  allowed  some  of  his  baggage  to  go  on  to 
Africa,  while  he  returned  to  be  present  at  this 
investigation.  What  do  you  make  of  that,  Wat- 
son?" 

"He  is  deeply  interested." 

"Deeply  interested — yes.  There  is  a  thread 
here  which  we  have  not  yet  grasped,  and  which 
might  lead  us  through  the  tangle.  Cheer  up, 
Watson,  for  I  am  very  sure  that  our  material  has 
not  yet  all  come  to  hand.  When  it  does,  we  may 
soon  leave  our  difficulties  behind  us." 

Little  did  I  think  how  soon  the  words  of 
Holmes  would  be  realised,  or  how  strange  and 
sinister  would  be  that  new  development  which 
opened  up  an  entirely  fresh  line  of  investigation. 
I  was  shaving  at  my  window  in  the  morning  when 
I  heard  the  rattle  of  hoofs,  and,  looking  up,  saw 
a  dogcart  coming  at  a  gallop  down  the  road. 
It  pulled  up  at  our  door,  and  our  friend  the 
vicar  sprang  from  it  and  rushed  up  our  garden 
path.  Holmes  was  already  dressed,  and  we 
hastened  down  to  meet  him. 

Our  visitor  was  so  excited  that  he  could  hardly 
articulate,  but  at  last  in  gasps  and  bursts  his 
tragic  story  came  out  of  him. 

"We  are  devil-ridden,  Mr.  Holmes !    My  poor 

parish  is  devil-ridden!"  he  cried.     "Satan  himself 

is  loose  in  it !     We  are  given  over  into  his  hands !" 

He  danced  about  in  his  agitation,  a  ludicrous 

[260] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVILS   FOOT 

object  if  it  were  not  for  his  ashy  face  and  startled 
eyes.  Finally  he  shot  out  his  terrible  news. 

"Mr.  Mortimer  Tregennis  died  during  the 
night,  and  with  exactly  the  same  symptoms  as 
the  rest  of  his  family." 

Holmes  sprang  to  his  feet,  all  energy  in  an 
instant. 

"Can  you  fit  us  both  into  your  dogcart?" 

"Yes,  I  can." 

"Then,  Watson,  we  will  postpone  our  break- 
fast. Mr.  Roundhay,  we  are  entirely  at  your 
disposal.  Hurry — hurry,  before  things  get  dis- 
arranged." 

The  lodger  occupied  two  rooms  at  the  vicar- 
age, which  were  in  an  angle  by  themselves,  the 
one  above  the  other.  Below  was  a  large  sitting- 
room;  above,  his  bedroom.  They  looked  out 
upon  a  croquet  lawn  which  came  up  to  the  win- 
dows. We  had  arrived  before  the  doctor  or  the 
police,  so  that  everything  was  absolutely  undis- 
turbed. Let  me  describe  exactly  the  scene  as  we 
saw  it  upon  that  misty  March  morning.  It  has 
left  an  impression  which  can  never  be  effaced 
from  my  mind. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  room  was  of  a  horrible 
and  depressing  stuffiness.  The  servant  who  had 
first  entered  had  thrown  up  the  window,  or  it 
would  have  been  even  more  intolerable.  This 
might  partly  be  due  to  the  fact  that  a  lamp  stood 
flaring  and  smoking  on  the  centre  table.  Beside 

[261] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


it  sat  the  dead  man,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
his  thin  beard  projecting,  his  spectacles  pushed 
up  on  to  his  forehead,  and  his  lean,  dark  face 
turned  towards  the  window  and  twisted  into  the 
same  distortion  of  terror  which  had  marked  the 
features  of  his  dead  sister.  His  limbs  were  con- 
vulsed and  his  fingers  contorted  as  though  he 
had  died  in  a  very  paroxysm  of  fear.  He  was 
fully  clothed,  though  there  were  signs  that  his 
dressing  had  been  done  in  a  hurry.  We  had  al- 
ready learned  that  his  bed  had  been  slept  in,  and 
that  the  tragic  end  had  come  to  him  in  the  early 
morning. 

One  realised  the  red-hot  energy  which  under- 
lay Holmes's  phlegmatic  exterior  when  one  saw 
the  sudden  change  which  came  over  him  from  the 
moment  that  he  entered  the  fatal  apartment.  In 
an  instant  he  was  tense  and  alert,  his  eyes  shining, 
his  face  set,  his  limbs  quivering  with  eager  activ- 
ity. He  was  out  on  the  lawn,  in  through  the 
window,  round  the  room,  and  up  into  the  bed- 
room, for  all  the  world  like  a  dashing  foxhound 
drawing  a  cover.  In  the  bedroom  he  made  a 
rapid  cast  around,  and  ended  by  throwing  open 
the  window,  which  appeared  to  give  him  some 
fresh  cause  for  excitement,  for  he  leaned  out  of 
it  with  loud  ejaculations  of  interest  and  delight. 
Then  he  rushed  down  the  stair,  out  through  the 
open  window,  threw  himself  upon  his  face  on 
the  lawn,  sprang  up  and  into  the  room  once  more, 
[262] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVIL  S   FOOT 

all  with  the  energy  of  the  hunter  who  is  at  the 
very  heels  of  his  quarry.  The  lamp,  which  was 
an  ordinary  standard,  he  examined  with  minute 
care,  making  certain  measurements  upon  its 
bowl.  He  carefully  scrutinised  writh  his  lens  the 
talc  shield  which  covered  the  top  of  the  chimney, 
and  scraped  off  some  ashes  which  adhered  to  its 
upper  surface,  putting  some  of  them  into  an  en- 
velope, which  he  placed  in  his  pocket-book. 
Finally,  just  as  the  doctor  and  the  official  police 
put  in  an  appearance,  he  beckoned  to  the  vicar 
and  we  all  three  went  out  upon  the  lawn. 

"I  am  glad  to  say  that  my  investigation  has 
not  been  entirely  barren,"  he  remarked.  "I  can- 
not remain  to  discuss  the  matter  with  the  police, 
but  I  should  be  exceedingly  obliged,  Mr.  Round- 
hay,  if  you  would  give  the  inspector  my  compli- 
ments and  direct  his  attention  to  the  bedroom 
window  and  to  the  sitting-room  lamp.  Each  is 
suggestive,  and  together  they  are  almost  conclu- 
sive. If  the  police  would  desire  further  informa- 
tion I  shall  be  happy  to  see  any  of  them  at  the 
cottage.  And  now,  Watson,  I  think  that,  per- 
haps, we  shall  be  better  employed  elsewhere." 

It  may  be  that  the  police  resented  the  intru- 
sion of  an  amateur,  or  that  they  imagined  them- 
selves to  be  upon  some  hopeful  line  of  investi- 
gation; but  it  is  certain  that  we  heard  nothing 
from  them  for  the  next  two  days.  During  this 
time  Holmes  spent  some  of  his  time  smoking 

[263] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


and  dreaming  in  the  cottage;  but  a  greater  por- 
tion in  country  walks  which  he  undertook  alone, 
returning  after  many  hours  without  remark  as 
to  where  he  had  been.  One  experiment  served 
to  show  me  the  line  of  his  investigation.  He  had 
bought  a  lamp  which  was  the  duplicate  of  the 
one  which  had  burned  in  the  room  of  Mortimer 
Tregennis  on  the  morning  of  the  tragedy.  This 
he  filled  with  the  same  oil  as  that  used  at  the 
vicarage,  and  he  carefully  timed  the  period  which 
it  would  take  to  be  exhausted.  Another  experi- 
ment which  he  made  was  of  a  more  unpleasant 
nature,  and  one  which  I  am  not  likely  ever  to 
forget. 

"You  will  remember,  Watson,"  he  remarked 
one  afternoon,  "that  there  is  a  single  common 
point  of  resemblance  in  the  varying  reports 
which  have  reached  us.  This  concerns  the 
effect  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  in  each 
case  upon  those  who  had  first  entered  it.  You 
will  recollect  that  Mortimer  Tregennis,  in  de- 
scribing the  episode  of  his  last  visit  to  his  brother's 
house,  remarked  that  the  doctor  on  entering  the 
room  fell  into  a  chair?  You  had  forgotten? 
Well,  I  can  answer  for  it  that  it  was  so.  Now, 
you  will  remember  also  that  Mrs.  Porter,  the 
housekeeper,  told  us  that  she  herself  fainted 
upon  entering  the  room  and  had  afterwards 
opened  the  window.  In  the  second  case — that 
of  Mortimer  Tregennis  himself — you  cannot 
[264] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVILS   FOOT 

have  forgotten  the  horrible  stuffiness  of  the 
room  when  we  arrived,  though  the  servant  had 
thrown  open  the  window.  That  servant,  I  found 
upon  inquiry,  was  so  ill  that  she  had  gone  to 
her  bed.  You  will  admit,  Watson,  that  these 
facts  are  very  suggestive.  In  each  case  there 
is  evidence  of  a  poisonous  atmosphere.  In  each 
case,  also,  there  is  combustion  going  on  in  the 
room — in  the  one  case  a  fire,  in  the  other  a  lamp. 
The  fire  was  needed,  but  the  lamp  was  lit — as  a 
comparison  of  the  oil  consumed  will  show — long 
after  it  was  broad  daylight.  Why?  Surely  be- 
cause there  is  some  connection  between  three 
things — the  burning,  the  stuffy  atmosphere,  and, 
finally,  the  madness  or  death  of  those  unfortu- 
nate people.  That  is  clear,  is  it  not?" 

"It  would  appear  so." 

"At  least  we  may  accept  it  as  a  working 
hypothesis.  We  will  suppose,  then,  that  some- 
thing was  burned  in  each  case  which  produced 
an  atmosphere  causing  strange  toxic  effects. 
Very  good.  In  the  first  instance — that  of  the 
Tregennis  family — this  substance  was  placed  in 
the  fire.  Now  the  window  was  shut,  but  the 
fire  would  naturally  carry  fumes  to  some  extent 
up  the  chimney.  Hence  one  would  expect  the 
effects  of  the  poison  to  be  less  than  in  the  second 
case,  where  there  was  less  escape  for  the  vapour. 
The  result  seems  to  indicate  that  it  was  so,  since 
in  the  first  case  only  the  woman,  who  had  pre- 

[265] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


sumably  the  more  sensitive  organism,  was  killed, 
the  others  exhibiting  that  temporary  or  perma- 
nent lunacy  which  is  evidently  the  first  eff ect  of 
the  drug.  In  the  second  case  the  result  was  com- 
plete. The  facts,  therefore,  seem  to  bear  out  the 
theory  of  a  poison  which  worked  by  combustion. 

"With  this  train  of  reasoning  in  my  head  I 
naturally  looked  about  in  Mortimer  Tregennis's 
room  to  find  some  remains  of  this  substance.  The 
obvious  place  to  look  was  the  talc  shield  or  smoke- 
guard  of  the  lamp.  There,  sure  enough,  I  per- 
ceived a  number  of  flaky  ashes,  and  round  the 
edges  a  fringe  of  brownish  powder,  which  had 
not  yet  been  consumed.  Half  of  this  I  took, 
as  you  saw,  and  I  placed  it  in  an  envelope." 

"Why  half,  Holmes?" 

"It  is  not  for  me,  my  dear  Watson,  to  stand 
in  the  way  of  the  official  police  force.  I  leave 
them  all  the  evidence  which  I  found.  The  poison 
still  remained  upon  the  talc,  had  they  the  wit  to 
find  it.  Now,  Watson,  we  will  light  our  lamp; 
we  will,  however,  take  the  precaution  to  open  our 
window  to  avoid  the  premature  decease  of  two 
deserving  members  of  society,  and  you  will  seat 
yourself  near  that  open  window  in  an  arm-chair, 
unless,  like  a  sensible  man,  you  determine  to  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  affair.  Oh,  you  will  see 
it  out,  will  you?  I  thought  I  knew  my  Watson. 
This  chair  I  will  place  opposite  yours,  so  that  we 
may  be  the  same  distance  from  the  poison,  and 
[266] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVIL  S   FOOT 

face  to  face.  The  door  we  will  leave  ajar.  Each 
is  now  in  a  position  to  watch  the  other  and  to 
bring  the  experiment  to  an  end  should  the  symp- 
toms seem  alarming.  Is  that  all  clear?  Well, 
then,  I  take  our  powder — or  what  remains  of  it 
— from  the  envelope,  and  I  lay  it  above  the  burn- 
ing lamp.  So!  Now,  Watson,  let  us  sit  down 
and  await  developments." 

They  were  not  long  in  coming.  I  had  hardly 
settled  in  my  chair  before  I  was  conscious  of  a 
thick,  musky  odour,  subtle  and  nauseous.  At 
the  very  first  whiff  of  it  my  brain  and  my  imag- 
ination were  beyond  all  control.  A  thick,  black 
cloud  swirled  before  my  eyes,  and  my  mind  told 
me  that  in  this  cloud,  unseen  as  yet,  but  about  to 
spring  out  upon  my  appalled  senses,  lurked  all 
that  was  vaguely  horrible,  all  that  was  monstrous 
and  inconceivably  wicked  in  the  universe.  Vague 
shapes  swirled  and  swam  amid  the  dark  cloud- 
bank,  each  a  menace  and  a  warning  of  something 
coming,  the  advent  of  some  unspeakable  dweller 
upon  the  threshold,  whose  very  shadow  would 
blast  my  soul.  A  freezing  horror  took  posses- 
sion of  me.  I  felt  that  my  hair  was  rising,  that 
my  eyes  were  protruding,  that  my  mouth  was 
opened,  and  my  tongue  like  leather.  The  tur- 
moil within  my  brain  was  such  that  something 
must  surely  snap.  I  tried  to  scream,  and  was 
vaguely  aware  of  some  hoarse  croak  which  was 
my  own  voice,  but  distant  and  detached  from  my- 

[267] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


self.  At  the  same  moment,  in  some  effort  of 
escape,  I  broke  through  that  cloud  of  despair,  and 
had  a  glimpse  of  Holmes's  face,  white,  rigid,  arid 
drawn  with  horror — the  very  look  which  I  had 
seen  upon  the  features  of  the  dead.  It  was  that 
vision  which  gave  me  an  instant  of  sanity  and  of 
strength.  I  dashed  from  my  chair,  threw  my 
arms  round  Holmes,  and  together  we  lurched 
through  the  door,  and  an  instant  afterwards  had 
thrown  ourselves  down  upon  the  grass  plot  and 
were  lying  side  by  side,  conscious  only  of  the 
glorious  sunshine  which  was  bursting  its  way 
through  the  hellish  cloud  of  terror  which  had  girt 
us  in.  Slowly  it  rose  from  our  souls  like  the 
mists  from  a  landscape,  until  peace  and  reason 
had  returned,  and  we  were  sitting  upon  the  grass, 
wiping  our  clammy  foreheads,  and  looking  with 
apprehension  at  each  other  to  mark  the  last 
traces  of  that  terrific  experience  which  we  had 
undergone. 

"Upon  my  word,  Watson!"  said  Holmes  at 
last,  with  an  unsteady  voice,  "I  owe  you  both  my 
thanks  and  an  apology.  It  was  an  unjustifiable 
experiment  even  for  oneself,  and  doubly  so  for  a 
friend.  I  am  really  very  sorry." 

"You  know,"  I  answered,  with  some  emotion, 
for  I  had  never  seen  so  much  of  Holmes's  heart 
before,  "that  it  is  my  greatest  joy  and  privilege 
to  help  you." 

He  relapsed  at  once  into  the  half-humorous, 
[268] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVII/S   FOOT 

half -cynical  vein  which  was  his  habitual  attitude 
to  those  about  him.  "It  would  be  superfluous  to 
drive  us  mad,  my  dear  Watson,"  said  he.  "A 
candid  observer  would  certainly  declare  that  we 
were  so  already  before  we  embarked  upon  so 
wild  an  experiment.  I  confess  that  I  never  im- 
agined that  the  effect  could  be  so  sudden  and  so 
severe."  He  dashed  into  the  cottage,  and  reap- 
pearing with  the  burning  lamp  held  at  full  arm's 
length,  he  threw  it  among  a  bank  of  brambles. 
"We  must  give  the  room  a  little  time  to  clear. 
I  take  it,  Watson,  that  you  have  no  longer  a 
shadow  of  a  doubt  as  to  how  these  tragedies  were 
produced?" 

"None  whatever." 

"But  the  cause  remains  as  obscure  as  before. 
Come  into  the  arbour  here  and  let  us  discuss  it 
together.  That  villainous  stuff  seems  still  to  lin- 
ger round  my  throat.  I  think  we  must  admit 
that  all  the  evidence  points  to  this  man,  Mortimer 
Tregennis,  having  been  the  criminal  in  the  first 
tragedy,  though  he  was  the  victim  in  the  second 
one.  We  must  remember,  in  the  first  place,  that 
there  is  some  story  of  a  family  quarrel,  followed 
by  a  reconciliation.  How  bitter  that  quarrel 
may  have  been,  or  how  hollow  the  reconciliation 
we  cannot  tell.  When  I  think  of  Mortimer  Tre- 
gennis, with  the  foxy  face  and  the  small  shrewd, 
beady  eyes,  behind  the  spectacles,  he  is  not  a  man 
whom  I  should  judge  to  be  of  a  particularly  for- 

[269] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


giving  disposition.  Well,  in  the  next  place,  you 
will  remember  that  this  idea  of  someone  moving 
in  the  garden,  which  took  our  attention  for  a  mo- 
ment from  the  real  cause  of  the  tragedy,  ema- 
nated from  him.  He  had  a  motive  in  misleading 
us.  Finally,  if  he  did  not  throw  this  substance 
into  the  fire  at  the  moment  of  leaving  the  room, 
who  did  do  so?  The  affair  happened  immedi- 
ately after  his  departure.  Had  anyone  else  come 
in,  the  family  would  certainly  have  risen  from 
the  table.  Besides,  in  peaceful  Cornwall,  visitors 
do  not  arrive  after  ten  o'clock  at  night.  We 
may  take  it,  then,  that  all  the  evidence  points 
to  Mortimer  Tregennis  as  the  culprit." 
"Then  his  own  death  was  suicide!" 
"Well,  Watson,  it  is  on  the  face  of  it  a  not 
impossible  supposition.  The  man  who  had  the 
guilt  upon  his  soul  of  having  brought  such  a  fate 
upon  his  own  family  might  well  be  driven  by  re- 
morse to  inflict  it  upon  himself.  There  are,  how- 
ever, some  cogent  reasons  against  it.  Fortu- 
nately, there  is  one  man  in  England  who  knows 
all  about  it,  and  I  have  made  arrangements  by 
which  we  shall  hear  the  facts  this  afternoon  from 
his  own  lips.  Ah!  he  is  a  little  before  his  time. 
Perhaps  you  would  kindly  step  this  way,  Dr. 
Leon  Sterndale.  We  have  been  conducting  a 
chemical  experiment  indoors  which  has  left  our 
little  room  hardly  fit  for  the  reception  of  so  dis- 
tinguished a  visitor." 
[270] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVII/S   FOOT 

I  had  heard  the  click  of  the  garden  gate,  and 
now  the  majestic  figure  of  the  great  African  ex- 
plorer appeared  upon  the  path.  He  turned  in 
some  surprise  towards  the  rustic  arbour  in  which 
we  sat. 

"You  sent  for  me,  Mr.  Holmes.  I  had  your 
note  about  an  hour  ago,  and  I  have  come,  though 
I  really  do  not  know  why  I  should  obey  your 
summons." 

"Perhaps  we  can  clear  the  point  up  before 
we  separate,"  said  Holmes.  "Meanwhile,  I  am 
much  obliged  to  you  for  your  courteous  acquies- 
cence. You  will  excuse  this  informal  reception 
in  the  open  air,  but  my  friend  Watson  and  I  have 
nearly  furnished  an  additional  chapter  to  what 
the  papers  call  the  Cornish  Horror,  and  we  pre- 
fer a  clear  atmosphere  for  the  present.  Perhaps, 
since  the  matters  which  we  have  to  discuss  will  af- 
fect you  personally  in  a  very  intimate  fashion, 
it  is  as  well  that  we  should  talk  where  there  can 
be  no  eavesdropping." 

The  explorer  took  his  cigar  from  his  lips  and 
gazed  sternly  at  my  companion. 

"I  am  at  a  loss  to  know,  sir,"  he  said,  "what 
you  can  have  to  speak  about  which  affects  me 
personally  in  a  very  intimate  fashion." 

"The  killing  of  Mortimer  Tregennis,"  said 
Holmes. 

For  a  moment  I  wished  that  I  were  armed. 
Sterndale's  fierce  face  turned  to  a  dusky  red, 

[271] 


HIS   LAST    BOW 


his  eyes  glared,  and  the  knotted,  passionate  veins 
started  out  in  his  forehead,  while  he  sprang  for- 
ward with  clenched  hands  towards  my  compan- 
ion. Then  he  stopped,  and  with  a  violent  effort 
he  resumed  a  cold,  rigid  calmness,  which  was,  per- 
haps, more  suggestive  of  danger  than  his  hot- 
headed out-burst. 

"I  have  lived  so  long  among  savages  and  be- 
yond the  law,"  said  he,  "that  I  have  got  into  the 
way  of  being  a  law  to  myself.  You  would  do 
well,  Mr.  Holmes,  not  to  forget  it,  for  I  have  no 
desire  to  do  you  an  injury." 

"Nor  have  I  any  desire  to  do  you  an  injury, 
Dr.  Sterndale.  Surely  the  clearest  proof  of  it  is 
that,  knowing  what  I  know,  I  have  sent  for  you 
and  not  for  the  police." 

Sterndale  sat  down  with  a  gasp,  overawed  for, 
perhaps,  the  first  time  in  his  adventurous  life. 
There  was  a  calm  assurance  of  power  in  Holmes's 
manner  which  could  not  be  withstood.  Our  vis- 
itor stammered  for  a  moment,  his  great  hands 
opening  and  shutting  in  his  agitation. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  at  last.  "If 
this  is  bluff  upon  your  part,  Mr.  Holmes,  you 
have  chosen  a  bad  man  for  your  experiment.  Let 
us  have  no  more  beating  about  the  bush.  What 
do  you  mean?" 

"I  will  tell  you,"  said  Holmes,  "and  the  reason 
why  I  tell  you  is  that  I  hope  frankness  may  beget 
frankness.  What  my  next  step  may  be  will  de- 
[272] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVIL  S   FOOT 

pend  entirely  upon  the  nature  of  your  own  de- 
fence." 

"My  defence?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"My  defence  against  what?" 

"Against  the  charge  of  killing  Mortimer  Tre- 
gennis." 

Sterndale  mopped  his  forehead  with  his  hand- 
kerchief. "Upon  my  word,  you  are  getting  on," 
said  he.  "Do  all  your  successes  depend  upon  this 
prodigious  power  of  bluff?" 

"The  bluff,"  said  Holmes,  sternly,  "is  upon 
your  side,  Dr.  Leon  Sterndale,  and  not  upon 
mine.  As  a  proof  I  will  tell  you  some  of  the 
facts  upon  which  my  conclusions  are  based.  Of 
your  return  from  Plymouth,  allowing  much  of 
your  property  to  go  on  to  Africa,  I  will  say 
noth'ing  save  that  it  first  informed  me  that  you 
were  one  of  the  factors  which  had  to  be  taken  into 
account  in  reconstructing  this  drama " 

"I  came  back " 

"I  have  heard  your  reasons  and  regard  them 
as  unconvincing  and  inadequate.  We  will  pass 
that.  You  came  down  here  to  ask  me  whom  I 
suspected.  I  refused  to  answer  you.  You  then 
went  to  the  vicarage,  waited  outside  it  for  some 
time,  and  finally  returned  to  your  cottage." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"I  followed  you." 

"I  saw  no  one." 

[273] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"That  is  what  you  may  expect  to  see  when 
I  follow  you.  You  spent  a  restless  night  at  your 
cottage,  and  you  formed  certain  plans,  which  in 
the  early  morning  you  proceeded  to  put  into  exe- 
cution. Leaving  your  door  just  as  day  was 
breaking,  you  filled  your  pocket  with  some  red- 
dish gravel  that  was  lying  heaped  beside  your 
gate." 

Sterndale  gave  a  violent  start  and  looked  at 
Holmes  in  amazement. 

"You  then  walked  swiftly  for  the  mile  which 
separated  you  from  the  vicarage.  You  were 
wearing,  I  may  remark,  the  same  pair  of  ribbed 
tennis  shoes  which  are  at  the  present  moment 
upon  your  feet.  At  the  vicarage  you  passed 
through  the  orchard  and  the  side  hedge,  coming 
out  under  the  window  of  the  lodger  Tregennis. 
It  was  now  daylight,  but  the  household  was  not 
yet  stirring.  You  drew  some  of  the  gravel  from 
your  pocket,  and  you  threw  it  up  at  the  window 
above  you." 

Sterndale  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"I  believe  that  you  are  the  devil  himself!"  he 
cried. 

Holmes  smiled  at  the  compliment.  "It  took 
two,  or  possibly  three,  handfuls  before  the  lodger 
came  to  the  window.  You  beckoned  him  to  come 
down.  He  dressed  hurriedly  and  descended  to 
his  sitting-room.  You  entered  by  the  window. 
There  was  an  interview — a  short  one — during 
[274] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVII/S   FOOT 

which  you  walked  up  and  down  the  room.  Then 
you  passed  out  and  closed  the  window,  standing 
on  the  lawn  outside  smoking  a  cigar  and  watch- 
ing what  occurred.  Finally,  after  the  death  of 
Tregennis,  you  withdrew  as  you  had  come.  Now, 
Dr.  Sterndale,  how  do  you  justify  such  conduct, 
and  what  were  the  motives  for  your  actions?  If 
you  prevaricate  or  trifle  with  me,  I  give  you  my 
assurance  that  the  matter  will  pass  out  of  my 
hands  for  ever." 

Our  visitor's  face  had  turned  ashen  grey  as  he 
listened  to  the  words  of  his  accuser.  Now  he  sat 
for  some  time  in  thought  with  his  face  sunk  in 
his  hands.  Then  with  a  sudden  impulsive  ges- 
ture he  plucked  a  photograph  from  his  breast- 
pocket and  threw  it  on  the  rustic  table  before  us. 

"That  is  why  I  have  done  it,"  said  he. 

It  showed  the  bust  and  face  of  a  very  beautiful 
woman.  Holmes  stooped  over  it. 

"Brenda  Tregennis,"  said  he. 

"Yes,  Brenda  Tregennis,"  repeated  our  visi- 
tor. "For  years  I  have  loved  her.  For  years 
she  has  loved  me.  There  is  the  secret  of  that 
Cornish  seclusion  which  people  have  marvelled 
at.  It  has  brought  me  close  to  the  one  thing  on 
earth  that  was  dear  to  me.  I  could  not  marry 
her,  for  I  have  a  wife  who  has  left  me  for  years 
and  yet  whom,  by  the  deplorable  laws  of  Eng- 
land, I  could  not  divorce.  For  years  Brenda 
waited.  For  years  I  waited.  And  this  is  what 

[275] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


we  have  waited  for."  A  terrible  sob  shook  his 
great  frame,  and  he  clutched  his  throat  under  his 
brindled  beard.  Then  with  an  effort  he  mastered 
himself  and  spoke  on. 

"The  vicar  knew.  He  was  in  our  confidence. 
He  would  tell  you  that  she  was  an  angel  upon 
earth.  That  was  why  he  telegraphed  to  me  and 
I  returned.  What  was  my  baggage  or  Africa  to 
me  when  I  learned  that  such  a  fate  had  come 
upon  my  darling?  There  you  have  the  missing 
clue  to  my  action,  Mr.  Holmes." 

"Proceed,"  said  my  friend. 

Dr.  Sterndale  drew  from  his  pocket  a  paper 
packet  and  laid  it  upon  the  table.  On  the  out- 
side was  written,  "Radix  pedis  diaboli"  with  a 
red  poison  label  beneath  it.  He  pushed  it 
towards  me.  "I  understand  that  you  are  a  doc- 
tor, sir.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  this  prepara- 
tion?" 

"Devil's-foot  root!  No,  I  have  never  heard 
of  it." 

"It  is  no  reflection  upon  your  professional 
knowledge,"  said  he,  "for  I  believe  that,  save  for 
one  sample  in  a  laboratory  at  Buda,  there  is 
no  other  specimen  in  Europe.  It  has  not  yet 
found  its  way  either  into  the  pharmacopoeia  or 
into  the  literature  of  toxicology.  The  root  is 
shaped  like  a  foot,  half  human,  half  goatlike; 
hence  the  fanciful  name  given  by  a  botanical  mis- 
sionary. It  is  used  as  an  ordeal  poison  by  the 
[276] 


THE    ADVENTURE   OF   THE   DEVIL  S   FOOT 

medicine-men  in  certain  districts  of  West  Africa, 
and  is  kept  as  a  secret  among  them.  This  par- 
ticular specimen  I  obtained  under  very  extraor- 
dinary circumstances  in  the  Ubanghi  country." 
He  opened  the  paper  as  he  spoke,  and  disclosed 
a  heap  of  reddish-brown,  snuff -like  powder. 

"Well,  sir?"  asked  Holmes  sternly. 

"I  am  about  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Holmes,  all  that 
actually  occurred,  for  you  already  know  so  much 
that  it  is  clearly  to  my  interest  that  you  should 
know  all.  I  have  already  explained  the  rela- 
tionship in  which  I  stood  to  the  Tregennis  family. 
For  the  sake  of  the  sister  I  was  friendly  with  the 
brothers.  There  was  a  family  quarrel  about 
money  which  estranged  this  man  Mortimer,  but 
it  was  supposed  to  be  made  up,  and  I  afterwards 
met  him  as  I  did  the  others.  He  was  a  sly,  sub- 
tle, scheming  man,  and  several  things  arose  which 
gave  me  a  suspicion  of  him,  but  I  had  no  cause 
for  any  positive  quarrel. 

"One  day,  only  a  couple  of  weeks  ago,  he  came 
down  to  my  cottage  and  I  showed  him  some  of 
my  African  curiosities.  Among  other  things  I 
exhibited  this  powder,  and  I  told  him  of  its 
strange  properties,  how  it  stimulates  those  brain 
centres  which  control  the  emotion  of  fear,  and 
how  either  madness  or  death  is  the  fate  of  the  un- 
happy native  who  is  subjected  to  the  ordeal  by 
the  priest  of  his  tribe.  I  told  him  also  how  pow- 
erless European  science  would  be  to  detect  it. 

[277] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


How  he  took  it  I  cannot  say,  for  I  never  left  the 
room,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  it  was  then,  while 
I  was  opening  cabinets  and  stooping  to  boxes, 
that  he  managed  to  abstract  some  of  the  devil's- 
f  oot  root.  I  well  remember  how  he  plied  me  with 
questions  as  to  the  amount  and  the  time  that  was 
needed  for  its  effect,  but  I  little  dreamed  that  he 
could  have  a  personal  reason  for  asking. 

"I  thought  no  more  of  the  matter  until  the 
vicar's  telegram  reached  me  at  Plymouth.  This 
villain  had  thought  that  I  would  be  at  sea  before 
the  news  could  reach  me,  and  that  I  should  be 
lost  for  years  in  Africa.  But  I  returned  at  once. 
Of  course,  I  could  not  listen  to  the  details  without 
feeling  assured  that  my  poison  had  been  used.  I 
came  round  to  see  you  on  the  chance  that  some 
other  explanation  had  suggested  itself  to  you. 
But  there  could  be  none.  I  was  convinced  that 
Mortimer  Tregennis  was  the  murderer;  that  for 
the  sake  of  money,  and  with  the  idea,  perhaps, 
that  if  the  other  members  of  his  family  were  all 
insane  he  would  be  the  sole  guardian  of  their  joint 
property,  he  had  used  the  devil's-foot  powder 
upon  them,  driven  two  of  them  out  of  their  senses, 
and  killed  his  sister  Brenda,  the  one  human  being 
whom  I  have  ever  loved  or  who  has  ever  loved  me. 
There  was  his  crime;  what  was  to  be  his  punish- 
ment? 

"Should  I  appeal  to  the  law?  Where  were  my 
proofs?  I  knew  that  the  facts  were  true,  but 
[278] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE  DEVILS   FOOT 

could  I  help  to  make  a  jury  of  countrymen  be- 
lieve so  fantastic  a  story?  I  might  or  I  might 
not.  But  I  could  not  afford  to  fail.  My  soul 
cried  out  for  revenge.  I  have  said  to  you  once 
before,  Mr.  Holmes,  that  I  have  spent  much  of 
my  life  outside  the  law,  and  that  I  have  come 
at  last  to  be  a  law  to  myself.  So  it  was  now.  I 
determined  that  the  fate  which  he  had  given  to 
others  should  be  shared  by  himself.  Either  that  or 
I  would  do  justice  upon  him  with  my  own  hand. 
In  all  England  there  can  be  no  man  who  sets  less 
value  upon  his  own  life  than  I  do  at  the  present 
moment. 

"Now  I  have  told  you  all.  You  have  yourself 
supplied  the  rest.  I  did,  as  you  say,  after  a  rest- 
less night,  set  off  early  from  my  cottage.  I 
foresaw  the  difficulty  of  arousing  him,  so  I  gath- 
ered some  gravel  from  the  pile  which  you  have 
mentioned,  and  I  used  it  to  throw  up  to  his  win- 
dow. He  came  down  and  admitted  me  through 
the  window  of  the  sitting-room.  I  laid  his  of- 
fence before  him.  I  told  him  that  I  had  come 
both  as  judge  and  executioner.  The  wretch  sank 
into  a  chair  paralysed  at  the  sight  of  my  revolver. 
I  lit  the  lamp,  put  the  powder  above  it,  and  stood 
outside  the  window,  ready  to  carry  out  my  threat 
to  shoot  him  should  he  tiy  to  leave  the  room.  In 
five  minutes  he  died.  My  God!  how  he  died! 
But  my  heart  was  flint,  for  he  endured  nothing 
which  my  innocent  darling  had  not  felt  before 

[279] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


him.  There  is  my  story,  Mr.  Holmes.  Per- 
haps, if  you  loved  a  woman,  you  would  have  done 
as  much  yourself.  At  any  rate,  I  am  in  your 
hands.  You  can  take  what  steps  you  like.  As 
I  have  already  said,  there  is  no  man  living  who 
can  fear  death  less  than  I  do." 

Holmes  sat  for  some  little  time  in  silence. 

"What  were  your  plans?"  he  asked,  at  last. 

"I  had  intended  to  bury  myself  in  Central 
Africa.  My  work  there  is  but  half  finished." 

"Go  and  do  the  other  half,"  said  Holmes.  "I, 
at  least,  am  not  prepared  to  prevent  you." 

Dr.  Sterndale  raised  his  giant  figure,  bowed 
gravely,  and  walked  from  the  arbour.  Holmes 
lit  his  pipe  and  handed  me  his  pouch. 

"Some  fumes  which  are  not  poisonous  would  be 
a  welcome  change,"  said  he.  "I  think  you  must 
agree,  Watson,  that  it  is  not  a  case  in  which  we 
are  called  upon  to  interfere.  Our  investigation 
has  been  independent,  and  our  action  shall  be 
so  also.  You  would  not  denounce  the  man?" 

"Certainly  not,"  I  answered. 

"I  have  never  loved,  Watson,  but  if  I  did  and 
if  the  woman  I  loved  had  met  such  an  end,  I 
might  act  even  as  our  lawless  lion-hunter  has 
done.  Who  knows?  Well,  Watson,  I  will  not 
offend  your  intelligence  by  explaining  what  is 
obvious.  The  gravel  upon  the  window-sill  was, 
of  course,  the  starting-point  of  my  research.  It 
was  unlike  anything  in  the  vicarage  garden. 
[280] 


THE   ADVENTURE   OF   THE  DEVILS   FOOT 

Only  when  my  attention  had  been  drawn  to  Dr. 
Sterndale  and  his  cottage  did  I  find  its  counter- 
part. The  lamp  shining  in  broad  daylight  and 
the  remains  of  powder  upon  the  shield  were  suc- 
cessive links  in  a  fairly  obvious  chain.  And  now, 
my  dear  Watson,  I  think  we  may  dismiss  the 
matter  from  our  mind,  and  go  back  with  a  clear 
conscience  to  the  study  of  those  Chaldean  roots 
which  are  surely  to  be  traced  in  the  Cornish 
branch  of  the  great  Celtic  speech." 


[281] 


VIII 
HIS  LAST  BOW 


AN  EPILOGUE   OF   SHERLOCK   HOLMES 

IT  was  nine  o'clock  at  night  upon  the  second 
of  August — the  most  terrible  August  in  the 
history  of  the  world.  One  might  have  thought 
already  that  God's  curse  hung  heavy  over  a  de- 
generate world,  for  there  was  an  awesome  hush 
and  a  feeling  of  vague  expectancy  in  the  sultry 
and  stagnant  air.  The  sun  had  long  set,  but  one 
blood-red  gash  like  an  open  wound  lay  low  in  the 
distant  west.  Above,  the  stars  were  shining 
brightly;  and  below,  the  lights  of  the  shipping 
glimmered  in  the  bay.  The  two  famous  Ger- 
mans stood  beside  the  stone  parapet  of  the  gar- 
den walk,  with  the  long  low,  heavily  gabled  house 
behind  them,  and  they  looked  down  upon  the 
broad  sweep  of  the  beach  at  the  foot  of  the  great 
chalk  cliff  on  which  Von  Bork,  like  some  wander- 
ing eagle,  had  perched  himself  four  years  before. 
They  stood  with  their  heads  close  together,  talk- 
[282] 


HIS   LAST    BOW 


ing  in  low,  confidential  tones.  From  below  the 
two  glowing  ends  of  their  cigars  might  have  been 
the  smouldering  eyes  of  some  malignant  fiend 
looking  down  in  the  darkness. 

A  remarkable  man  this  Von  Bork — a  man  who 
could  hardly  be  matched  among  all  the  devoted 
agents  of  the  Kaiser.  It  was  his  talents  which 
had  first  recommended  him  for  the  English  mis- 
sion, the  most  important  mission  of  all,  but  since 
he  had  taken  it  over,  tKose  talents  had  become 
more  and  more  manifest  to  the  half-dozen  people 
in  the  world  who  were  really  in  touch  with  the 
truth.  One  of  these  was  his  present  companion, 
Baron  Von  Herling,  the  chief  secretary  of  the 
legation,  whose  huge  100-horse-power  Benz  car 
was  blocking  the  country  lane  as  it  waited  to 
waft  its  owner  back  to  London. 

"So  far  as  I  can  judge  the  trend  of  events, 
you  will  probably  be  back  in  Berlin  within  the 
week,"  the  secretary  was  saying.  "When  you 
get  there,  my  dear  Von  Bork,  I  think  you  will  be 
surprised  at  the  welcome  you  will  receive.  I 
happen  to  know  what  is  thought  in  the  highest 
quarters  of  your  work  in  this  country."  He  was 
a  huge  man,  the  secretary,  deep,  broad,  and  tall, 
with  a  slow,  heavy  fashion  of  speech  which  had 
been  his  main  asset  in  his  political  career. 

Von  Bork  laughed. 

"They  are  not  very  hard  to  deceive,"  he  re- 

[283] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


marked.  "A  more  docile,  simple  folk  could  not 
be  imagined." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  the  other 
thoughtfully.  "They;  have  strange  limits  and 
one  must  learn  to  observe  them.  It  is  that  sur- 
face simplicity  of  theirs  which  makes  a  trap  for 
the  stranger.  One's  first  impression  is  that  they 
are  entirely  soft.  Then  one  comes  suddenly 
upon  something  very  hard,  and  you  know  that 
you  have  reached  the  limit,  and  must  adapt  your- 
self to  the  fact.  They  have,  for  example,  their 
insular  conventions  which  simply  must  be  ob- 
served." 

"Meaning,  'good  form'  and  that  sort  of  thing?" 
Von  Bork  sighed,  as  one  who  had  suffered  much. 

"Meaning  British  prejudice  in  all  its  queer 
manifestations.  As  an  example  I  may  quote  one 
of  my  own  worst  blunders — I  can  afford  to  talk 
of  my  blunders,  for  you  know  my  work  well 
enough  to  be  aware  of  my  successes.  It  was  on 
my  first  arrival.  I  was  invited  to  a  week-end 
gathering  at  the  country  house  of  a  cabinet  minis- 
ter. The  conversation  was  amazingly  indis- 
creet." 

Von  Bork  nodded.  "I've  been  there,"  said  he 
dryly. 

"Exactly.     Weil,  I  naturally  sent  a  resume 

of  the  information  to  Berlin.     Unfortunately  our 

good  Chancellor  is  a  little  heavy-handed  in  these 

matters,   and  he  transmitted  a  remark  which 

[284] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


showed  that  he  was  aware  of  what  had  been  said. 
This,  of  course,  took  the  trail  straight  up  to  me. 
You've  no  idea  the  harm  that  it  did  me.  There 
was  nothing  soft  about  our  British  hosts  on  that 
occasion,  I  can  assure  you.  I  was  two  years 
living  it  down.  Now  you,  with  this  sporting  pose 
of  yours." 

"No,  no,  don't  call  it  a  pose.  A  pose  is  an 
artificial  thing.  This  is  quite  natural.  I  am  a 
born  sportsman.  I  enjoy  it." 

"Well,  that  makes  it  the  more  effective.  You 
yacht  against  them,  you  hunt  with  them,  you  play 
polo,  you  match  them  in  every  game,  your  four- 
in-hand  takes  the  prize  at  Olympia.  I  have  even 
heard  that  you  go  the  length  of  boxing  with  the 
young  officers.  What  is  the  result?  Nobody 
takes  you  seriously.  You  are  a  'good  old  sport,' 
'quite  a  decent  fellow  for  a  German,'  a  hard- 
drinking,  night-club,  knock-about-town,  devil- 
may-care  young  fellow.  And  all  the  time  this 
quiet  country  house  of  yours  is  the  centre  of  half 
the  mischief  in  England,  and  the  sporting  squire 
the  most  astute  secret-service  man  in  Europe. 
Genius,  my  dear  Von  Bork — genius!" 

"You  flatter  me,  Baron.  But  certainly  I  may 
claim  that  my  four  years  in  this  country  have  not 
been  unproductive.  I've  never  shown  you  my 
little  store.  Would  you  mind  stepping  in  for  a 
moment." 

The  door  of  the  study  opened  straight  on  to 

[285] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


the  terrace.  Von  Bork  pushed  it  back,  and, 
leading  the  way,  he  clicked  the  switch  of  the  elec- 
tric light.  He  then  closed  the  door  behind  the 
bulky  form  which  followed  him,  and  carefully  ad- 
justed the  heavy  curtain  over  the  latticed  win- 
dow. Only  when  all  these  precautions  had  been 
taken  and  tested  did  he  turn  his  sunburned  aqui- 
line face  to  his  guest. 

"Some  of  my  papers  have  gone,"  said  he, 
"when  my  wife  and  the  houshold  left  yesterday 
for  Flushing  they  took  the  less  important  with 
them.  I  must,  of  course,  claim  the  protection 
of  the  embassy  for  the  others." 

"Your  name  has  already  been  filed  as  one  of 
the  personal  suite.  There  will  be  no  difficulties 
for  you  or  your  baggage.  Of  course,  it  is  just 
possible  that  we  may  not  have  to  go.  England 
may  leave  France  to  her  fate.  We  are  sure  that 
there  is  no  binding  treaty  between  them." 

"And  Belgium?" 

"Yes,  and  Belgium,  too." 

Von  Bork  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  see  how 
that  could  be.  There  is  a  definite  treaty  there. 
She  could  never  recover  from  such  a  humiliation." 

"She  would  at  least  have  peace  for  the  mo- 
ment." 

"But  her  honour?" 

"Tut,  my  dear  sir,  we  live  in  a  utilitarian  age. 
Honour  is  a  mediseval  conception.  Besides  Eng- 
land is  not  ready.  It  is  an  inconceivable  thing, 
[286] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


but  even  our  special  war  tax  of  fifty  million, 
which  one  would  think  made  our  purpose  as  clear 
as  if  we  had  advertised  it  on  the  front  page  of 
the  Times,  has  not  roused  these  people  from  their 
slumbers.  Here  and  there  one  hears  a  question. 
It  is  my  business  to  find  an  answer.  Here  and 
there  also  there  is  an  irritation.  It  is  my  business 
to  soothe  it.  But  I  can  assure  you  that  so  far  as 
the  essentials  go — the  storage  of  munitions,  the 
preparation  for  submarine  attack,  the  arrange- 
ments for  making  high  explosives — nothing  is 
prepared.  How,  then,  can  England  come  in,  es- 
pecially when  we  have  stirred  her  up  such  a  devil's 
brew  of  Irish  civil  war,  window-breaking  Furies, 
and  God  knows  what  to  keep  her  thoughts  at 
home." 

"She  must  think  of  her  future." 

"Ah,  that  is  another  matter.  I  fancy  that  in 
the  future,  we  have  our  own  very  definite  plans 
about  England,  and  that  your  information  will 
be  very  vital  to  us.  It  is  to-day  or  to-morrow 
with  Mr.  John  Bull.  If  he  prefers  to-day  we 
are  perfectly  ready.  If  it  is  to-morrow  we  shall 
be  more  ready  still.  I  should  think  they  would 
be  wiser  to  fight  with  allies  than  without  them, 
but  that  is  their  own  affair.  This  week  is  their 
week  of  destiny.  But  you  were  speaking  of  your 
papers."  He  sat  in  the  armchair  with  the  light 
shining  upon  his  broad  bald  head,  while  he 
puffed  sedately  at  his  cigar. 

[287] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


The  large  oak-pannelled,  book-lined  room  had 
a  curtain  hung  in  the  further  corner.  When  this 
was  drawn  it  disclosed  a  large,  brass-bound  safe. 
Von  Bork  detached  a  small  key  from  his  watch 
chain,  and  after  some  considerable  manipulation 
of  the  lock  he  swung  open  the  heavy  door. 

"Look!"  said  he,  standing  clear,  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand. 

The  light  shone  vividly  into  the  opened  safe, 
and  the  secretary  of  the  embassy  gazed  with  an 
absorbed  interest  at  the  rows  of  stuffed  pigeon- 
holes with  which  it  was  furnished.  Each  pigeon- 
hole had  its  label,  and  his  eyes  as  he  glanced  along 
them  read  a  long  series  of  such  titles  as  "Fords," 
"Harbour-defences,"  "Aeroplanes,"  "Ireland," 
"Egypt,"  "Portsmouth  forts,"  "The  Channel," 
"Rosythe,"  and  a  score  of  others.  Each  com- 
partment was  bristling  with  papers  and  plans. 

"Colossal!"  said  the  secretary.  Putting  down 
his  cigar  he  softly  clapped  his  fat  hands. 

"And  all  in  four  years,  Baron.  Not  such  a 
bad  show  for  the  hard-drinking,  hard-riding 
country  squire.  But  the  gem  of  my  collection 
is  coming  and  there  is  the  setting  all  ready  for  it." 
He  pointed  to  a  space  over  which  "Naval  Sig- 
nals" was  printed. 

"But  you  have  a  good  dossier  there  already." 

"Out  of  date  and  waste  paper.  Tl;c  Admir- 
alty in  some  way  got  the  alarm  and  every  code 
has  been  changed.  It  was  a  blow,  Baron — the 
[288] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


worst  set-back  in  my  whole  campaign.  But 
thanks  to  my  cheque-book  and  the  good  Altamont 
all  will  be  well  to-night." 

The  Baron  looked  at  his  watch,  and  gave  a 
guttural  exclamation  of  disappointment. 

"Well,  I  really  can  wait  no  longer.  You  can 
imagine  that  things  are  moving  at  present  in 
Carlton  Terrace  and  that  we  have  all  to  be  at 
our  posts.  I  had  hoped  to  be  able  to  bring  news  of 
your  great  coup.  Did  Altamont  name  no  hour?" 

Von  Bork  pushed  over  a  telegram. 

"Will  come  without  fail  to-night  and  bring 
new  sparking  plugs.  Altamont." 

"Sparking  plugs,  eh?" 

"You  see  he  poses  as  a  motor  expert  and  I 
keep  a  full  garage.  In  our  code  everything 
likely  to  come  up  is  named  after  some  spare  part. 
If  he  talks  of  a  radiator  it  is  a  battleship,  of  an 
oil  pump  a  cruiser,  and  so  on.  Sparking  plugs 
are  naval  signals." 

"From  Portsmouth  at  mid-day,"  said  the  sec- 
retary, examining  the  superscription.  "By  the 
way,  what  do  you  give  him?" 

"Five  hundred  pounds  for  this  particular  job. 
Of  course  he  has  a  salary  as  well." 

"The  greedy  rogue.  They  are  useful,  these 
traitors,  but  I  grudge  them  their  blood  money." 

"I  grudge  Altamont  nothing.  He  is  a  won- 
derful worker.  If  I  pay  him  well,  at  least  he 
delivers  the  goods,  to  use  his  own  phrase.  Be- 

[289] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


sides  he  is  not  a  traitor.  I  assure  you  that  our 
most  pan-Germanic  Junker  is  a  sucking  dove  in 
his  feelings  towards  England  as  compared  with  a 
real  bitter  Irish- American." 

"Oh,  an  Irish- American?" 

"If  you  heard  him  talk  you  would  not  doubt 
it.  Sometimes  I  assure  you  I  can  hardly  under- 
stand him.  He  seems  to  have  declared  war  on 
the  King's  English  as  well  as  on  the  English 
King.  Must  you  really  go?  He  may  be  here 
any  moment." 

"No.  I'm  sorry,  but  I  have  already  over- 
stayed my  time.  We  shall  expect  you  early  to- 
morrow, and  when  you  get  that  signal  book 
through  the  little  door  on  the  Duke  of  York's 
steps  you  can  put  a  triumphant  Finis  to  your 
record  in  England.  What!  Tokay!"  He  in- 
dicated a  heavily  sealed  dust-covered  bottle  which 
stood  with  two  high  glasses  upon  a  salver. 

"May  I  offer  you  a  glass  before  your  jour- 
ney?" 

"No,  thanks.     But  it  looks  like  revelry." 

"Altamont  has  a  nice  taste  in  wines,  and  he 
took  a  fancy  to  my  Tokay.  He  is  a  touchy  fel- 
low and  needs  humouring  in  small  things.  I 
have  to  study  him,  I  assure  you."  They  had 
strolled  out  on  to  the  terrace  again,  and  along  it 
to  the  further  end  where  at  a  touch  from  the 
Baron's  chauffeur  the  great  car  shivered  and 
chuckled.  "Those  are  the  lights  of  Harwich,  I 
[290} 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


suppose,"  said  the  secretary,  pulling  on  his  dust 
coat.  "How  still  and  peaceful  it  all  seems. 
There  may  be  other  lights  within  the  week,  and 
the  English  coast  a  less  tranquil  place!  The 
heavens,  too,  may  not  be  quite  so  peaceful  if  all 
that  the  good  Zeppelin  promises  us  comes  true. 
By  the  way,  who  is  that?" 

Only  one  window  showed  a  light  behind  them ; 
in  it  there  stood  a  lamp,  and  beside  it,  seated  at 
a  table,  was  a  dear  old  ruddy-faced  woman  in  a 
country  cap.  She  was  bending  over  her  knitting 
and  stopping  occasionally  to  stroke  a  large  black 
cat  upon  a  stool  beside  her. 

"That  is  Martha,  the  only  servant  I  have  left." 

The  secretary  chuckled. 

"She  might  almost  personify  Britannia,"  said 
he,  "with  her  complete  self-absorption  and  gen- 
eral air  of  comfortable  somnolence.  Well,  au 
revoir,  Von  Bork!" — with  a  final  wave  of  his 
hand  he  sprang  into  the  car,  and  a  moment  later 
the  two  golden  cones  from  the  headlights  shot 
forward  through  the  darkness.  The  secretary 
lay  back  in  the  cushions  of  the  luxurious  limou- 
sine, with  his  thoughts  so  full  of  the  impending 
European  tragedy  that  he  hardly  observed  that 
as  his  car  swung  round  the  village  street  it  nearly 
passed  over  a  little  Ford  coming  in  the  opposite 
direction. 

Von  Bork  walked  slowly  back  to  the  study 
when  the  last  gleams  of  the  motor  lamps  had 

[291] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


faded  into  the  distance.  As  he  passed  he  ob- 
served that  his  old  housekeeper  had  put  out  her 
lamp  and  retired.  It  was  a  new  experience  to 
him,  the  silence  and  darkness  of  his  widespread 
house,  for  his  family  and  household  had  been  a 
large  one.  It  was  a  relief  to  him,  however,  to 
think  that  they  were  all  in  safety  and  that,  but 
for  that  one  old  woman  who  had  lingered  in  the 
kitchen,  he  had  the  whole  place  to  himself.  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  tidying  up  to  do  inside  his 
study  and  he  set  himself  to  do  it,  until  his  keen, 
handsome  face  was  flushed  with  the  heat  of  the 
burning  papers.  A  leather  valise  stood  beside 
his  table,  and  into  this  he  began  to  pack  very 
neatly  and  systematically  the  precious  contents 
of  his  safe.  He  had  hardly  got  started  with  the 
work,  however,  when  his  quick  ears  caught  the 
sound  of  a  distant  car,  Instantly  he  gave  an  ex- 
clamation of  satisfaction,  strapped  up  the  valise, 
shut  the  safe,  locked  it,  and  hurried  out  on  to  the 
terrace.  He  was  just  in  time  to  see  the  lights  of 
a  small  car  come  to  a  halt  at  the  gate.  A  pas- 
senger sprang  out  of  it  and  advanced  swiftly 
towards  him,  while  the  chauffeur,  a  heavily  built, 
elderly  man,  with  a  grey  moustache  settled  down, 
like  one  who  resigns  himself  to  a  long  vigil. 

"Well?"  asked  Von  Bork  eagerly,  running  for- 
ward to  meet  his  visitor. 

For  answer  the  man  waved  a  small  brown- 
paper  parcel  triumphantly  above  his  head. 
[292] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"You  can  give  me  the  glad  hand  to-night, 
Mister,"  he  cried.  "I'm  bringing  home  the  ba- 
con at  last." 

"The  signals?" 

"Same  as  I  said  in  my  cable.  Every  last  one 
of  them,  semaphore,  lamp  code,  Marconi — a 
copy,  mind  you,  not  the  original.  That  was  too 
dangerous.  But  it's  the  real  goods,  and  you 
can  lay  to  that,"  he  slapped  the  German  upon 
the  shoulder  with  a  rough  familiarity  from  which 
the  other  winced. 

"Come  in,"  he  said.  "I'm  all  alone  in  the 
house.  I  was  only  waiting  for  this.  Of  course 
a  copy  is  better  than  the  original.  If  an  original 
were  missing  they  would  change  the  whole  thing. 
You  think  it's  all  safe  about  the  copy?" 

The  Irish- American  had  entered  the  study  and 
stretched  his  long  limbs  from  the  armchair.  He 
was  a  tall,  gaunt  man  of  sixty,  with  clear-cut  fea- 
tures and  a  small  goatee  beard  which  gave  him 
a  general  resemblance  to  the  caricatures  of  Uncle 
Sam.  A  half -smoked,  sodden  cigar  hung  from 
the  corner  of  his  mouth,  and  as  he  sat  down  he 
struck  a  match  and  relit  it.  "Making  ready  for 
a  move?"  he  remarked  as  he  looked  round  him. 
"Say,  Mister,"  he  added,  as  his  eyes  fell  upon 
the  safe  from  which  the  curtain  was  now  removed, 
"you  don't  tell  me  you  keep  your  papers  in  that?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Gosh,  in  a  wide-open  contraption  like  that! 

[293] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


And  they  reckon  you  to  be  some  spy.  Why,  a 
Yankee  crook  would  be  into  that  with  a  can- 
opener.  If  I'd  known  that  any  letter  of  mine 
was  goin'  to  lie  loose  in  a  thing  like  that  I'd  have 
been  a  mug  to  write  to  you  at  all." 

"It  would  puzzle  any  crook  to  force  that  safe," 
Von  Bork  answered.  "You  won't  cut  that  metal 
with  any  tool." 

"But  the  lock?" 

"No,  it's  a,  double  combination  lock.  You 
know  what  that  is?" 

"Search  me,"  said  the  American. 

"Well,  you  need  a  word  as  well  as  a  set  of 
figures  before  you  can  get  the  lock  to  work." 
He  rose  and  showed  a  double-radiating  disc 
round  the  keyhole.  "This  outer  one  is  for  the 
letters,  the  inner  one  for  the  figures." 

"Well,  well,  that's  fine." 

"So  it's  not  quite  as  simple  as  you  thought. 
It  was  four  years  ago  that  I  had  it  made,  and 
what  do  you  think  I  chose  for  the  word  and  fig- 
ures." 

"It's  beyond  me." 

"Well,  I  chose  August  for  the  word,  and  1914 
for  the  figures,  and  here  we  are." 

The  American's  face  showed  his  surprise  and 
admiration. 

"My,  but  that  was  smart!  You  had  it  down 
to  a  fine  thing." 

"Yes,  a  few  of  us  even  then  could  have 
[294] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


guessed  the  date.  Here  it  is,  and  I'm  shut- 
ting down  to-morrow  morning." 

"Well,  I  guess  you'll  have  to  fix  me  up  also. 
I'm  not  staying  in  this  goldarned  country  all  on 
my  lonesome.  In  a  week  or  less  from  what  I  see, 
John  Bull  will  be  on  his  hind  legs  and  fair  ramp- 
ing. I'd  rather  watch  him  from  over  the  water." 

"But  you're  an  American  citizen?" 

"Well,  so  was  Jack  James  an  American  citi- 
zen, but  he's  doing  time  in  Portland  all  the  same. 
It  cuts  no  ice  with  a  British  copper  to  tell  him 
you're  an  American  citizen.  'It's  British  law  and 
order  over  here,'  says  he.  By  the  way,  Mister, 
talking  of  Jack  James,  it  seems  to  me  you  don't 
do  much  to  cover  your  men." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Von  Bork  asked 
sharply. 

"Well,  you  are  their  employer,  ain't  you?  It's 
up  to  you  to  see  that  they  don't  fall  down.  But 
they  do  fall  down,  and  when  did  you  ever  pick 
them  up?  There's  James " 

"It  was  James's  own  fault.  You  know  that 
yourself.  He  was  too  self-willed  for  the  job." 

"James  was  a  bonehead — I  give  you  that. 
Then  there  was  Hollis." 

"The  man  was  mad." 

"Well,  he  went  a  bit  woozy  towards  the  end. 
It's  enough  to  make  a  man  bughouse  when  he 
has  to  play  a  part  from  morning  to  night  with  a 

[295] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


hundred  guys  all  ready  to  set  the  coppers  wise 
to  him.     But  now  there  is  Steiner — 

Von  Bork  started  violently,  and  his  ruddy  face 
turned  a  shade  paler. 

"What  about  Steiner?" 

"Well,  they've  got  him,  that's  all.  They 
raided  his  store  last  night,  and  he  and  his  papers 
are  all  in  Portsmouth  gaol.  You'll  go  off  and 
he,  poor  devil,  will  have  to  stand  the  racket,  and 
lucky  if  he  gets  off  with  his  life.  That's  why  I 
want  to  get  over  the  water  as  soon  as  you  do." 

Von  Bork  was  a  strong,  self-contained  man, 
but  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the  news  had  shaken 
him. 

"How  could  they  have  got  on  to  Steiner,"  he 
muttered.  "That's  the  worst  blow  yet." 

"Well,  you  nearly  had  a  worse  one,  for  I  be- 
lieve they  are  not  far  off  me."  , 

"You  don't  mean  that!" 

"Sure  thing.  My  landlady  down  Fratton  way 
had  some  inquiries,  and  when  I  heard  of  it  I 
guessed  it  was  time  for  me  to  hustle.  But  what 
I  want  to  know,  Mister,  is  how  the  coppers  know 
these  things?  Steiner  is  the  fifth  man  you've 
lost  since  I  signed  on  with  you,  and  I  know  the 
name  of  the  sixth  if  I  don't  get  a  move  on.  How 
do  you  explain  it,  and  ain't  you  ashamed  to  see 
your  men  go  down  like  this?" 

Von  Bork  flushed  crimson. 

"How  dare  you  speak  in  such  a  way!" 
[296] 


HIS  LAST   BOW 


"If  I  didn't  dare  things,  Mister,  I  wouldn't 
be  in  your  service.  But  I'll  tell  you  straight 
what  is  in  my  mind.  I've  heard  that  with  you 
German  politicians  when  an  agent  has  done  his 
work  you  are  not  sorry  to  see  him  put  away." 

Von  Bork  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Do  you  dare  to  suggest  that  I  have  given 
away  my  own  agents!" 

"I  don't  stand  for  that,  Mister,  but  there's 
a  stool  pigeon  or  a  cross  somewhere,  and  it's  up 
to  you  to  find  out  where  it  is.  Anyhow  I  am 
taking  no  more  chances.  It's  me  for  little  Hol- 
land, and  the  sooner  the  better." 

Von  Bork  had  mastered  his  anger. 

"We  have  been  allies  too  long  to  quarrel  now 
at  the  very  hour  of  victory,"  he  said.  "You've 
done  splendid  work,  and  taken  risks  and  I  can't 
forget  it.  By  all  means  go  to  Holland,  and  you 
can  get  a  boat  from  Rotterdam  to  New  York. 
No  other  line  will  be  safe  a  week  from  now.  I'll 
take  that  book  and  pack  it  with  the  rest." 

The  American  held  the  small  parcel  in  his 
hand,  but  made  no  motion  to  give  it  up. 

"What  about  the  dough?"  he  asked. 

"The  what?" 

"The  boodle.  The  reward.  The  £500.  The 
gunner  turned  damned  nasty  at  the  last,  and  I 
had  to  square  him  with  an  extra  hundred  dollars 
or  it  would  have  been  nitsky  for  you  and  me. 
'Nothin'  doin'  1'  says  he,  and  he  meant  it  too,  but 

[297] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


the  last  hundred  did  it.  It's  cost  me  two  hun- 
dred pound  from  first  to  last,  so  it  isn't  likely  I'd 
give  it  up  without  gettin'  my  wad." 

Von  Bork  smiled  with  some  bitterness.  "You 
don't  seem  to  have  a  very  high  opinion  of  my 
honour,"  said  he,  "you  want  the  money  before 
you  give  up  the  book." 

"Well,  Mister,  it  is  a  business  proposition." 

"All  right.  Have  your  way."  He  sat  down 
at  the  table  and  scribbled  a  cheque,  which  he 
tore  from  the  book,  but  he  refrained  from  handing 
it  to  his  companion.  "After  all,  since  we  are 
to  be  on  such  terms,  Mr.  Altamont,"  said  he, 
"I  don't  see  why  I  should  trust  you  any  more 
than  you  trust  me.  Do  you  understand?"  he 
added,  looking  back  over  hisi  shoulder  at  the 
American.  "There's  the  cheque  upon  the  table. 
I  claim  the  right  to  examine  that  parcel  before 
you  pick  the  money  up." 

The  American  passed  it  over  without  a  word. 
Von  Bork  undid  a  winding  of  string  and  two 
wrappers  of  paper.  Then  he  sat  gazing  for  a 
moment  in  silent  amazement  at  a  small  blue  book 
which  lay  before  him.  Across  the  cover  was 
printed  in  golden  letters  Practical  Handbook  of 
Bee  Culture.  Only  for  one  instant  did  the  mas- 
ter spy  glare  at  this  strangely  irrelevant  inscrip- 
tion. The  next  he  was  gripped  at  the  back  of 
his  neck  by  a  grasp  of  iron,  and  a  chloroformed 
sponge  was  held  in  front  of  his  writhing  face. 
[298] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"Another  glass,  Watson  1"  said  Mr.  Sherlock 
Holmes,  as  he  extended  the  bottle  of  Imperial 
Tokay. 

The  thickset  chauffeur,  who  had  seated  him- 
self by  the  table,  pushed  forward  his  glass  with 
some  eagerness. 

"It  is  a  good  wine,  Holmes." 

"A  remarkable  wine,  Watson.  Our  friend 
upon  the  sofa  has  assured  me  that  it  is  from 
Franz  Joseph's  special  cellar  at  the  Schoen- 
brunn  Palace.  Might  I  trouble  you  to  open  the 
window,  for  chloroform  vapour  does  not  help  the 
palate." 

The  safe  was  ajar,  and  Holmes  standing  in 
front  of  it  was  removing  dossier  after  dossier, 
swiftly  examining  each,  and  then  packing  it 
neatly  in  Von  Bork's  valise.  The  German  lay 
upon  the  sofa  sleeping  stertorously  with  a  strap 
round  his  upper  arms  and  another  round  his  legs. 

"We  need  not  hurry  ourselves,  Watson.  We 
are  safe  from  interruption.  Would  you  mind 
touching  the  bell.  There  is  no  one  in  the  house 
except  old  Martha  who  has  played  her  part  to 
admiration.  I  got  her  the  situation  here  when 
first  I  took  the  matter  up.  Ah,  Martha,  you 
will  be  glad  to  hear  that  all  is  well." 

The  pleasant  old  lady  had  appeared  in  the 
doorway.  She  curtseyed  with  a  smile  to  Mr. 
Holmes,  but  glanced  with  some  apprehension 
at  the  figure  upon  the  sofa. 

[299] 


HIS  LAST   BOW 


"It  is  all  right,  Martha.  He  has  not  been 
hurt  at  all." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,  Mr.  Holmes.  According  to 
his  lights  he  has  been  a  kind  master.  He  wanted 
me  to  go  with  his  wife  to  Germany  yesterday, 
but  that  would  hardly  have  suited  your  plans, 
would  it,  sir?" 

"No,  indeed,  Martha.  So  long  as  you  were 
here  I  was  easy  in  my  mind.  We  waited  some 
time  for  your  signal  to-night." 

"It  was  the  secretary,  sir." 

"I  know.     His  car  passed  ours." 

"I  thought  he  would  never  go.  I  knew  that 
it  would  not  suit  your  plans,  sir,  to  find  him 
here." 

"No,  indeed.  Well,  it  only  meant  that  we 
waited  half  an  hour  or  so  until  I  saw  your  lamp 
go  out  and  knew  that  the  coast  was  clear.  You 
can  report  to  me  to-morrow  in  London,  Martha, 
at  Claridge's  Hotel." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

"I  suppose  you  have  everything  ready  to 
leave." 

"Yes,  sir.  He  posted  seven  letters  to-day. 
I  have  the  addresses  as  usual." 

"Very  good,  Martha.  I  will  look  into  them 
to-morrow.  Good-night.  These  papers,"  he 
continued,  as  the  old  lady  vanished,  "are  not  of 
very  great  importance  for,  of  course,  the  infor- 
mation which  they  represent  has  been  sent  off 
[300] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


long  ago  to  the  German  Govenment.  These  are 
the  originals  which  could  not  safely  be  got  out 
of  the  country." 

"Then  they  are  of  no  use." 

"I  should  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that,  Watson. 
They  will  at  least  show  our  people  what  is  known 
arid  what  is  not.  I  may  say  that  a  good  many  of 
these  papers  have  come  through  me,  and  I  need 
not  add  are  thoroughly  untrustworthy.  It 
would  brighten  my  declining  years  to  see  a  Ger- 
man cruiser  navigating  the  Solent  according  to 
the  minefield  plans  which  I  have  furnished.  But 
you,  Watson,"  he  stopped  his  work  and  took  his 
old  friend  by  the  shoulders,  "I've  hardly  seen  you 
in  the  light  yet.  How  have  the  years  used  you? 
You  look  the  same  blithe  boy  as  ever." 

"I  feel  twenty  years  younger,  Holmes.  I 
have  seldom  felt  so  happy  as  when  I  got  your 
wire  asking  me  to  meet  you  at  Harwich  with  the 
car.  But  you,  Holmes — you  have  changed  very 
little — save  for  that  horrible  goatee." 

"These  are  the  sacrifices  one  makes  for  one's 
country,  Watson,"  said  Holmes,  pulling  at  his 
little  tuft.  "To-morrow  it  will  be  but  a  dread- 
ful memory.  With  my  hair  cut  and  a  few  other 
superficial  changes  I  shall  no  doubt  reappear  at 
Claridge's  to-morrow  as  I  was  before  this  Amer- 
ican stunt — I  beg  your  pardon,  Watson,  my  well 
of  English  seems  to  be  permanently  defiled — be- 
fore this  American  job  came  my  way." 

[301] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


"But  you  had  retired,  Holmes.  We  heard  of 
you  as  living  the  life  of  a  hermit  among  your 
bees  and  your  books  in  a  small  farm  upon  the 
South  Downs." 

"Exactly,  Watson.  Here  is  the  fruit  of  my 
leisured  ease,  the  magnum  opus  of  my  latter 
years!"  He  picked  up  the  volume  from  the  ta- 
ble and  read  out  the  whole  title,  Practical  Hand- 
book of  Bee  Culture,  with  some  Observations 
upon  the  Segregation  of  the  Queen.  Alone  I 
did  it.  Behold  the  fruit  of  pensive  nights  and 
laborious  days,  when  I  watched  the  little  working 
gangs  as  once  I  watched  the  criminal  world  of 
London." 

"But  how  did  you  get  to  work  again?" 

"Ah,  I  have  often  marvelled  at  it  myself.  The 
Foreign  Minister  alone  I  could  have  withstood, 
but  when  the  Premier  also  deigned  to  visit  my 

humble  roof !  The  fact  is,  Watson,  that 

this  gentleman  upon  the  sofa  was  a  bit  too  good 
for  our  people.  He  was  in  a  class  by  himself. 
Things  were  going  wrong,  and  no  one  could  un- 
derstand why  they  were  going  wrong.  Agents 
were  suspected  or  even  caught,  but  there  was  evi- 
dence of  some  strong  and  secret  central  force.  It 
was  absolutely  necessary  to  expose  it.  Strong 
pressure  was  brought  upon  me  to  look  into  the 
matter.  It  has  cost  me  two  years,  Watson,  but 
they  have  not  been  devoid  of  excitement.  When 
I  say  that  I  started  my  pilgrimage  at  Chicago, 
[302] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


graduated  in  an  Irish  secret  society  at  Buffalo, 
gave  serious  trouble  to  the  constabulary  at 
Skibbareen  and  so  eventually  caught  the  eye  of 
a  subordinate  agent  of  Von  Bork,  who  recom- 
mended me  as  a  likely  man,  you  will  realise  that 
the  matter  was  complex.  Since  then  I  have  been 
honoured  by  his  confidence,  which  has  not  pre- 
vented most  of  his  plans  going  subtly  wrong  and 
five  of  his  best  agents  being  in  prison.  I 
watched  them,  Watson,  and  I  picked  them  as 
they  ripened.  Well,  sir,  I  hope  that  you  are 
none  the  worse  1" 

The  last  remark  was  addressed  to  Von  Bork 
himself,  who  after  much  gasping  and  blinking 
had  lain  quietly  listening  to  Holmes's  statement. 
He  broke  out  now  into  a  furious  stream  of  Ger- 
man invective,  his  face  convulsed  with  passion. 
Holmes  continued  his  swift  investigation  of  docu- 
ments while  his  prisoner  cursed  and  swore. 

"Though  unmusical,  German  is  the  most;  ex- 
pressive of  all  languages,"  he  observed,  when 
Von  Bork  had  stopped  from  pure  exhaustion. 
"Hullo!  Hullo!"  he  added,  as  he  looked  hard  at 
the  corner  of  a  tracing  before  putting  it  in  the 
box.  "This  should  put  another  bird  in  the  cage. 
I  had  no  idea  that  the  paymaster  was  such  a 
rascal,  though  I  have  long  had  an  eye  upon  him. 
Mister  Von  Bork,  you  have  a  great  deal  to  an- 
swer for." 

The  prisoner  had  raised  himself  with  some  diffi- 

[303] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


culty  upon  the  sofa  and  was  staring  with  a  strange 
mixture  of  amazement  and  hatred  at  his  captor. 

"I  shall  get  level  with  you,  Altamont,"  he 
said,  speaking  with  slow  deliberation,  "if  it  takes 
me  all  my  life  I  shall  get  level  with  you!" 

"The  old  sweet  song,"  said  Holmes.  "How 
often  have  I  heard  it  in  days  gone  by.  It  was 
a  favourite  ditty  of  the  late  lamented  Professor 
Moriarty.  Colonel  Sebastian  Moran  has  also 
been  known  to  warble  it.  And  yet  I  live  and 
keep  bees  upon  the  South  Downs." 

"Curse  you,  yoii(  double  traitor!"  cried  the 
German,  straining  against  his  bonds  and  glaring 
murder  from  his  furious  eyes. 

"No,  no,  it  is  not  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Holmes, 
smiling.  "As  my  speech  surely  shows  you,  Mr. 
Altamont  of  Chicago  had  no  existence  in  fact. 
I  used  him  and  he  is  gone." 

"Then  who  are  you?" 

"It  is  really  immaterial  who  I  am,  but  since 
the  matter  seems  to  interest  you,  Mr.  Von  Bork, 
I  may  say  that  this  is  not  my  first  acquaintance 
with  the  members  of  your  family.  I  have  done 
a  good  deal  of  business  in  Germany  in  the  past 
and  my  name  is  probably  familiar  to  you." 

"I  would  wish  to  know  it,"  said  the  Prussian 
grimly. 

"It  was  I  who  brought  about  the  separation 
between  Irene  Adler  and  the  late  King  of  Bo- 
hemia when  your  cousin  Heinrich  was  the  Im- 
[304] 


HIS   LAST   BOW 


perial  Envoy.  It  was  I  also  who  saved  from 
murder,  by  the  Nihilist  Klopman,  Count  Von 
und  Zu  Grafenstein,  who  was  your  mother's 
elder  brother.  It  was  I " 

Von  Bork  sat  up  in  amazement. 

"There  is  only  one  man,"  he  cried. 

"Exactly,"  said  Holmes. 

Von  Bork  groaned  and  sank  back  on  the  sofa. 
"And  most  of  that  information  came  through 
you,"  he  cried.  "What  is  it  worth?  What 
have  I  done?  It  is  my  ruin  for  ever!" 

"It  is  certainly  a  little  untrustworthy,"  said 
Holmes.  "It  will  require  some  checking  and 
you  have  little  time  to  check  it.  Your  admiral 
may  find  the  new  guns  rather  larger  than  he  ex- 
pects, and  the  cruisers  perhaps  a  trifle  faster." 

Von  Bork  clutched  at  his  own  throat  in  de- 
spair. 

"There  are  a  good  many  other  points  of  de- 
tail which  will,  no  doubt,  come  to  light  in  good 
time.  But  you  have  one  quality  which  is  very 
rare  in  a  German,  Mr.  Von  Bork,  you  are  a 
sportsman  and  you  will  bear  me  no  ill-will  when 
you  realise  that  you,  who  have  outwitted  so  many 
other  people,  have  at  last  been  outwitted  your- 
self. After  all,  you  have  done  your  best  for 
your  country,  and  I  have  done  my  best  for  mine, 
and  what  could  be  more  natural?  Besides,"  he 
added,  not  unkindly,  as  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
shoulder  of  the  prostrate  man,  "it  is  better  than 

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HIS   LAST   BOW 


to  fall  before  some  more  ignoble  foe.  These  pa- 
pers are  now  ready,  Watson.  If  you  will  help 
me  with  our  prisoner,  I  think  that  we  may  get 
started  for  London  at  once." 

It  was  no  easy  task  to  move  Von  Bork,  for 
he  was  a  strong  and  a  desperate  man.  Finally, 
holding  either  arm,  the  two  friends  walked  him 
very  slowly  down  the  garden  walk  which  he  had 
trod  with  such  proud  confidence  when  he  re- 
ceived the  congratulations  of  the  famous  diplo- 
matist only  a  few  hours  before.  After  a  short, 
final  struggle  he  was  hoisted,  still  bound  hand 
and  foot,  into  the  spare  seat  of  the  little  car. 
His  precious  valise  was  wedged  in  beside  him. 

"I  trust  that  you  are  as  comfortable  as  circum- 
stances permit,"  said  Holmes,  when  the  final 
arrangements  were  made.  "Should  I  be  guilty 
of  a  liberty  if  I  lit  a  cigar  and  placed  it  between 
your  lips?" 

But  all  amenities  were  wasted  upon  the  angry 
German. 

"I  suppose  you  realise,  Mr.  Sherlock  Holmes," 
said  he,  "that  if  your  Government  bears  you 
out  in  this  treatment  it  becomes  an  act  of  war." 

"What  about  your  Government  and  all  this 
treatment?"  said  Holmes,  tapping  the  valise. 

"You  are  a  private  individual.  You  have  no 
warrant  for  my  arrest.  The  whole  proceeding 
is  absolutely  illegal  and  outrageous." 

"Absolutely,"  said  Holmes. 
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HIS   LAST   BOW 


"Kidnapping  a  German  subject." 
"And  stealing  his  private  papers." 
"Well,  you  realise  your  position,  you  and  your 
accomplice  here.     If  I  were  to  shout  for  help 

as  we  pass  through  the  village " 

"My  dear  sir,  if  you  did  anything  so  foolish 
you  would  probably  enlarge  the  two  limited  titles 
of  our  village  inns  by  giving  us  'The  Dangling 
Prussian'  as  a  sign-post.  The  Englishman  is  a 
patient  creature,  but  at  present  his  temper  is  a 
little  inflamed  and  it  would  be  as  well  not  to  try 
him  too  far.  No,  Mr.  Von  Bork,  you  will  go 
with  us  in  a  quiet,  sensible  fashion  to  Scotland 
Yard,  whence  you  can  send  for  your  friend, 
Baron  Von  Herling,  and  see  if  even  now  you  may 
not  fill  that  place  which  he  has  reserved  for  you  in 
the  ambassadorial  suite.  As  to  you,  Watson, 
you  are  joining  us  with  your  old  service,  as  I 
understand,  so  London  won't  be  out  of  your  way. 
Stand  with  me  here  upon  the  terrace  for  it  may 
be  the  last  quiet  talk  that  we  shall  ever  have." 

The  two  friends  chatted  in  intimate  converse 
for  a  few  minutes,  recalling  once  again  the  days 
of  the  past  whilst  their  prisoner  vainly  wriggled 
to  undo  the  bonds  that  held  him.  As  they  turned 
to  the  car,  Holmes  pointed  back  to  the  moonlit 
sea,  and  shook  a  thoughtful  head. 

"There's  an  east  wind  coming,  Watson." 
"I  think  not,  Holmes.     It  is  very  warm.'* 
"Good  old  Watson!    You  are  the  one  fixed 

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HIS   LAST  BOW 


point  in  a  changing  age.  There's  an  east  wind 
coming  all  the  same,  such  a  wind  as  never  blew 
on  England  yet.  It  will  be  cold  and  bitter,  Wat- 
son, and  a  good  many  of  us  may  wither  before 
its  blast.  But  it's  God's  own  wind  none  the  less, 
and  a  cleaner,  better,  stronger  land  will  lie  in  the 
sunshine  when  the  storm  has  cleared.  Start  her 
up,  Watson,  for  it's  time  that  we  were  on  our 
way.  I  have  a  cheque  for  five  hundred  pounds 
which  should  be  cashed  early,  for  the  drawer  is 
quite  capable  of  stopping  it,  if  he  can." 


THE    END 


[308] 


D  ec . 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000026329     3 


